THE  END  OF 
THE  FLIGHT 

BURTON  KLINE 


'eS^ 


X-t>y  k- 


iL^ 


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THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 


Wrr.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGFXE^ 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

STRUCK    BY    lightning: 
THE  COMEDY  OF  BEING  A  MAN 

The  story  of  a  violent  love  affair 
played  by  a  prominent  man  before 
the  chilly  stares  of  a  prudish  people. 

"  A  well  constructed,  plausible 
narrative,  cleverly  written,  and  ex- 
tremely amusing."  —  Boston  Adver- 
tiser. 


New  York:    John  Lane  Company 
London  :  John  Lane,  The  Bodley  Head 


THE 

END  OF  THE  FUGHT 


BY 

BURTON    KLINE 

AUTHOR  OF  "struck  BY  LIGHTNING:    A  COMEDY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:     JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE, THE  BODLEYHEAD 

MCMXVII 


COPYRIGHT,    I917 
BY  JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 


THE -PLIMPTON -PRESS 
NORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 


TO   MY    FRIEND 
J.     P.     COLLINS 

BECAUSE    I    OWE    HIM    GREATLY,    AND 
LIKE    HIM    MORE 


2130810 


BOOK  ONE 


The  End  of  the  Fhght 


CHAPTER  I 

SHE  was  one  of  the  causeless  catastrophes.  Even 
she  herself  could  offer  no  apology  for  being. 
She  happened.     She  was.     That  is  all. 

Anywhere  else  her  career  might  have  run  its 
course  as  well,  or  even  more  successfully.  That  such 
a  woman  and  such  a  career  fell  where  they  did  is 
one  of  the  ironies,  too. 

As  ironical  as  a  prison  in  the  sunlight. 

You  would  smile  at  the  thought  of  fiery  human 
passions  breaking  out  upon  a  scene  of  such  utter 
serenity.  There  lies  the  miniature  metropolis,  in  a 
great  bowl  of  greenery  three  miles  wide  and  perhaps 
nine  long.  One  of  its  rims  is  fashioned  of  the  last 
tired  lifts  of  a  continental  chain  of  mountains.  The 
other  rim  is  scalloped  by  a  tier  of  lower  hills,  laid 
out  like  a  grandstand  before  the  spectacle  of  this 
sunken  garden  with  a  city  in  the  middle.  Three 
hundred  miles  away  the  sea  calls  vainly  to  the  waters 
of  the  river,  that  sleep  in  this  bowl  as  if  resolved 
never  to  leave  it  after  their  wild  sports  in  the  wooded 
country  to  the  west.  Eastward  the  bowl  and  the 
river  open  into  a  wider,  an  even  lovelier  valley,  that 
still  patiently  waits  to  commit  its  nooks  to  a  Corot, 
its  sweep  of  line  to  a  Turner.  And  the  Springs  and 
Autumns  of  that  vale  would  have  satisfied  even 
Vergil. 


10  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

So,  with  these  and  other  valid  excuses,  the  Httle 
toy  metropolis,  as  you  see  it  of  an  Autumn  afternoon 
from  the  tip  of  one  of  its  hills,  is  entitled  to  its  large 
and  amusing  conceits.  Over  its  head  are  hoisted  ten 
thousand  parasols  of  elm  and  maple.  Ten  thousand 
little  gardens  quilt  its  "suburbs,"  and  beckon  you 
down  from  your  hill  for  a  pipe  of  peace  among  their 
verbenas  and  sweet  peas.  The  rattle  from  the  streets, 
the  whine  of  electric  cars,  the  hum  of  motors,  the 
whistles  of  the  locomotives,  the  droning  of  the  miUs, 
come  faintly  up  to  your  height,  and  you  laugh  said 
exult  over  this  emporium  in  miniature,  this  mar- 
vellous little  toy  of  a  town,  perfected  even  to  these 
astounding  details. 

And  that  it  should  be  alive!  The  streets  are  teem- 
ing with  trucks  and  cars;  shoppers  and  strollers 
weave  through  each  other's  movements  on  the  side- 
walks. On  the  almost  moveless  mirror  that  the  river 
has  fixed  between  the  two  halves  of  the  town,  like  a 
perpetual  invitation  to  virtue,  you  may  mark  the 
lazy  zigzags  of  a  score  of  afternoon  canoes,  and  their 
score  of  afternoon  flirtations.  Here  too  it  is  clear 
that  life  is  life,  though  lived  in  miniature.  Here  too 
Eve  lightly  invites,  and  perhaps  as  lightly  dismisses, 
miserable  Adam  at  her  door.  Eden  and  Rossacre  are 
twin  gardens  after  all. 

Not  forgetting  their  serpents. 

If  the^,  gorgeous  beauties  of  the  region  invite  a 
Turner,  life  there  demands  the  airy  touch  of  a  Daudet, 
surely.  Fancy  your  fate  among  forty  thousand  good 
people  who  are  forty  thousand  seeming  friends,  and 
potential  enemies!  Every  one  of  them  has  deadly 
knowledge  of  every  other.  Every  day  they  all  enjoy 
the    solid    satisfaction    of   criticising    forty    thousand 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  11 

other  characters,  of  overseeing  forty  thousand  other 
lives.  The  clothes-reel  is  the  true  newspaper,  and  the 
extra  sheets  on  Mrs.  Brown's  line  have  published  the 
arrival  of  her  guest  long  before  his  name  occurs  in 
the  column  of  "  Personal  Mention"  in  the  public  prints. 
A  hardy  soul  is  Brown  himself  if  he  dares  the  opinion 
of  neighbor  Jackson  in  a  hat  one  penny  finer  than  his 
well-known  salary  will  allow  him.  Woe  be  to  Jackson 
if  he  appears  to  public  view  with  so  much  as  a  new 
silver-mounted  cane  of  a  Sunday,  without  due  warning 
or  just  cause  in  his  business. 

"Look  at  the  pufTed-up  beggar!"  Brown  will  say  to 
his  wife.     "Presuming  above  his  station!" 

Next  morning  Brown  will  board  an  early  down-town 
car  and  buy  a  silver  cane  for  himself.  No  one  shall 
get  ahead  of  Brown. 

On  one  point  only  do  good  Rossacrats,  of  whatever 
degree,  arrive  at  complete  accord.  On  the  magnifi- 
cence of  Rossacre  as  a  metropolis.  Never  do  they 
weary  of  impressing  this  fact  upon  each  other.  No- 
where else  do  young  bloods  swagger  as  swagger  the 
bloods  of  Rossacre.  Or  with  more  excellent  reason. 
Salient  figures  as  they  are,  in  a  centre  of  commerce, 
of  fashion  and  society,  the  universal  object  of  wonder 
to  visitors  from  a  region  of  simple  farming  folk  round 
about,  what  have  they  to  do  but  bathe  all  day  long 
in  their  own  effulgence. ^* 

The  annoyances  of  the  human  lot  cannot  be  simple 
in  a  community  where  every  living  soul  knows  the 
history  of  every  family  and  the  history  of  every 
private  fortune,  down  to  the  very  last  dollar  and  the 
very  last  comma.  And  though  the  good  ladies  observe 
a  praiseworthy  restraint  before  such  openings  for 
gossip,  Rossacre  is  not  exclusively  comic  and  it  is  not 


12  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

exclusively  beautiful.  The  passions  are  apt  not  to 
languish  but  to  luxuriate  in  a  place  of  peace. 

Certainly  they  were  not  allowed  to  languish  in  the 
bosom  of  one  woman  who  flourished  there. 

StiU,  for  all  of  Rossacre's  fierce  battles  in  business 
and  politics,  for  all  its  petty  socigJ  assassinations,  for 
all  its  chatter  and  gossip,  its  occasional  scandal,  its 
absurd  pomposities,  the  little  metropolis  has  like- 
wise its  merry  hours,  its  gay  amusements,  its  pretty 
romances,  its  happy  people,  and  their  contented  lives. 
These  things  lift  themselves  amid  the  less  lovely 
matters  like  the  quiet  hills  round  about,  like  the 
many  graceful  trees  that  convert  the  town  into  a 
veritable  park. 

Come  down  from  your  hill  and  see  it  for  yourself, 
the  duels  but  the  revels  too.  You  are  invited  to  the 
house  of  the  Hon.  Ira  Gayland,  the  important  figure 
of  all  Rossacre,  no  less.  This  evening  the  Gaylands 
are  giving  an  overpowering  ball. 


CHAPTER   II 

AND  a  sensation  awaits  at  once.  "The  Avenue" 
in  front  of  the  Gayland  house  is  clogged  by  a 
surging  and  curious  crowd,  where  elbows  take 
the  place  of  manners. 

"Wot's  doin'.^"  from  a  breathless  newcomer  who 
rushes  past  in  the  gathering  dusk  to  join  the  throng. 
"Somebody  hurt.^" 

"Good  Lord,  where  you  been!  Summerin'  in 
Yewrope.^"  he  is  answered.  "We're  all  hurt.  Old 
Gayland  's  givin'  a  blow-out,  and  nary  a  wone  of  us 
has  he  asked,  that's  all." 

"Oh,  not  that  we  care!"  a  wit  interrupts.  "We've 
just  strolled  past,  accidental-like,  to  get  a  few  pointers 
for  the  carpenters'  ball  next  week."  And  waves  of 
laughter  ripple  away  over  the  listeners. 

"Bless  us!"  says  a  woman,  "I  could  do  just  as  well 
myself  if  I  had  the  necessary  pennies.  All  I  need  is 
somebody  to  show  my  old  man  how  to  make  a  mil- 
lion."    And  the  laughter  swells  in  volume. 

"Better  ask  Judge  Gayland  how  he  made  his  mil- 
lion!" comes  another  voice.  "Maybe  he  'd  be  glad 
to  tell  you,  now  that  election  's  comin'  on." 

The  witticism  draws  a  volley  of  rejoinders:  — 

"A-aw,  these  here  $10,000  millionaires  gives  me  a 
pain!" 

"Wonder  if  old  Gayland  's  goin'  to  be  re-elected?" 

"Bet  you  a  cigar  he  ain't!" 

"Huh!  He  can  invite  us  to  vote,  but  he  can't  in- 
vite us  to  his  dansti" 


14  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"He  '11  be  dancin'  himself  in  another  way  before 
long.  One  o'  these  days  that  merry  gent  is  goin'  to 
come  down  in  the  world,  mark  my  words." 

"And  won't  there  be  a  flood  of  tears  when  he 
does  itl" 

"Aw,  cut  itl  He  ain't  so  bad.  No  tough  egg  could 
have  the  mighty  fine  daughter  that  man's  got." 

"Sa-ay!  She  is  a  fine  girl.  You  're  right  about  that. 
My  daughter  's  in  the  same  sewing  circle  wid  her,  and 
says  there  ain't  a  sweeter,  nicer  girl  in  the  world. 
And  yet  they  call  her  'Cannibal  Gayland'!" 

The  commentary  halts  before  a  fresh  arrival  of 
guests  out  of  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  whirring 
of  motors,  the  tooting  of  horns,  and  the  general  hum 
of  the  crowd. 

"  Hurray  1"  a  man  shouts,  as  a  limousine  draws  up 
at  the  curb.     "It's  the  little  Senator  himself  I" 

"Little  old  Senator  Banks  himself!"  the  news 
spreads.  "Who-WAY!"  they  all  cheer  at  mention 
of  the  Senator's  name,  and  surge  forward  to  see. 
In  the  thick  of  the  cheering  a  stout  little  gentleman 
steps  down  from  his  car,  bows  delightedly  right  and 
left,  and  hands  out  a  stout  little  lady,  whose  gown 
starts  a  gasp  from  the  feminine  contingent. 

Behind  them  another  car  is  already  discharging  its 
ornamental  freight. 

"Mighty  sharp  feller,  the  little  Senator!"  the  com- 
ment begins  again. 

"Sharp  's  the  word!  He  can  smell  coal  twenty  mile 
away  and  two  mile  deep!" 

"Guess  bein'  State  Treasurer  for  one  term  and 
State  Senator  for  another  wa'n't  a  splendid  good 
thing  for  him,  eh?" 

"'Tain't  every  man  gets  a  start  in  life  like  that!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  15 

"Aw,  bosh!  Pipe  it  off!  He  's  'union.'  I  guess 
my  boy  goes  to  college  next  month  on  his  money. 
Nothin'  much  the  matter  with  that  kind  o'  man!" 

There  the  chatter  ceases  for  a  moment  while  they 
all  fix  their  envy  upon  this  fortunate  speaker. 

"Well,  don't  stretch  your  neck  too  far!"  he  is  re- 
buked. "Half  a  dozen  other  boys  about  here  c'n  say 
the  same  for  the  little  Senator!" 

"'Rah  for  Walker  Landis!"  a  shout  breaks  in,  as 
the  occupants  of  the  second  car  step  down,  not  so 
blessed  with  popularity,  it  is  soon  clear. 

"'Rah  for  the  champion  mortgage-squeezer  in  these 
parts!"  some  one  jeers  under  his  breath. 

"Champion  pall-bearer,  you  mean!  Don't  he 
look  it?" 

"Prick  that  feller,  and  he  'd  squirt  yellow!" 

And  no  one  softens  the  comment  with  reports  of 
college  charities  as  Mr.  Landis  hurries  his  wife  out 
of  hearing  toward  the  Gayland  gateway. 

So  the  High  Court  of  public  opinion  sits  on.  And 
not  in  bitterness,  either  —  not  bitter,  at  least  for  the 
moment,  even  toward  Walker  Landis.  Dimly  their 
faces  start  out  in  the  faint  greenish  glow  of  the  arc- 
lights,  sifted  down  upon  them  through  the  dense  fog 
of  foliage  in  the  trees  above.  They  are  the  factory 
hands,  the  shop  clerks,  the  railroad  employees,  the 
small  merchants,  the  Jacksons  and  Browns,  all  the 
commoners  of  Rossacre,  all  inter-related,  among 
whom  one  voter  offended  means  all  votes  lost.  Yet 
these  good  people  are  indulgent  and  kindly,  and 
secretly  proud  to  live  in  a  town  where  at  least  the 
other  and  more  fortunate  fellow  can  live  life  just  as  in 
New  York,  or  as  in  the  very  best  magazines  and 
novels. 


16  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Suddenly  there  is  a  violent  commotion  among  them. 
The  sensation  has  fallen  like  a  thunderclap. 

Having  crossed  the  broad  sidewalk,  Senator  Banks, 
with  his  lady,  waits  beside  the  Gayland  gate  for  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Landis  to  join  them  on  the  long  journey  up 
the  electrically  lighted  canopy  across  the  lawn  to  the 
Gayland  door. 

And  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Landis  almost  ignore  the  Sena- 
tor's salute,  such  is  their  chilly  humour,  and  pass  on, 
with  their  heads  in  the  air. 

"Did  you  only  see  that!"  some  one  gasps  in  the 
crowd. 

"Well,  for  the  love  o'  Mike!" 

"The  impudent  pup!" 

"Well!  All  /  can  say  is,  Landis  '11  get  it,  good 
and  plenty,  for  that!" 

"Now,  what  can  that  mean!" 

Some  one  whistles. 

"It  means,"  solemnly  pronounces  the  inevitable 
and  ubiquitous  wiseacre,  "thet  Senator  Banks,  and 
all  the  rest  o'  the  town,  has  got  to  look  out  fer  that 
man  Landis.  That  's  what  it  means.  You  saw  him 
give  notice." 

"'At  's  so.  Been  bad  blood  between  'em  fer  some 
time." 

"So  ho!"  says  one.  "Brother  Landis  is  goin'  to 
down  the  little  Senator,  is  he!  Well,  I  bet  he  doesn't 
do  it  without  the  Senator's  consent!" 

"Yes,  and  don't  forget  that  Andy  Penning  will  have 
some'n  to  say  about  it,  too!" 

"Oh,  by  the  way!  Has  anybody  here  seen  'Our 
Andy'?"  an  irrelevant  woman  pipes  up.  "They  can't 
start  'er  up  in  there  without  Andy." 

"  Oh,  he  's  been  in  there  this  long  while.     I  seen  him." 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  17 

"G'wan!  That  man  Andy  Penning  can't  sneak  in 
there  without  our  knowin'  it." 

"I  seen  him,  and  I  heard  him.  He  walked  here, 
with  Senator  Banks's  daughter.  And  he  was  makin' 
damagin'  remarks  about  marriage." 

"Gee!"  says  a  lady,  "He  's  in  love!" 

"Mr.  Penning  is  in  love,"  once  more  the  wiseacre 
comes  into  his  own.  Perhaps  all  the  while  he  has 
been  husbanding  that  thunderbolt  for  just  such 
effective  use  as  now.  "He  's  certainly  in  love  if 
appearances  counts  fer  anything!" 

"Appearances?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Andy  Penning!     'Our  Andy'?" 

There  is  another  sensation,  clearly.  They  edge  in 
to  hear  something  more. 

"So  Sylvia  Banks  's  got  him  collared  at  last?" 

"Sylvia  Banks  nothin'!  It  's  Judge  Gayland's 
daughter,  I  tell  ye!" 

"Why!  Syllie  and  him  was  as  good  as  engaged! 
I  got  that  straight!" 

"It  's  the  Gayland  girl,  I  tell  ye.  Wait  and 
see."  .  .  . 

They  are  still  debating,  as  the  Gayland  door  in- 
vites, the  intentions  —  or  perhaps  the  fate?  —  of  a 
young  man  whose  fortunes  are  clearly  of  supreme 
interest  to  the  town. 

"So  that  's  what  he's  been  up  to  all  this  while! 
The  sly  dog!"  comes  the  echo  of  a  feminine  voice. 

"To  think  he  could  keep  it  from  us  so  long!"  — 
another.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  Gaylands'  bowing  butler  gives 
welcome. 


CHAPTER   III 

GIVES  welcome  to  the  social  event  that  for 
years  has  marked  the  opening  of  "the  season" 
in  Rossacre.  And  to  the  opening  of  the  most 
dramatic  episode  in  the  history  of  Rossacre. 

These  are  the  settings  of  the  stage. 

"Upper  Lincoln"  —  that  is,  Upper  Lincoln  Avenue, 
where  the  Gaylands  live  —  is  like  a  tunnel  through 
a  mine  of  leaves,  so  densely  is  the  street  there  shaded 
by  its  double  rows  of  maples  and  elms.  Back  from 
the  curbs,  and  behind  long  lines  of  ornamental  iron 
fence,  stretch  deep  lawns,  some  of  them  with  foun- 
tains and  marble  statues,  all  of  them  fretted  with 
trees  and  shrubs  laid  out  by  landscape  architects. 
And  like  rocky  promontories  in  these  seas  of  lawn 
stand  the  houses  of  Rossacre's  wealthy  and  elect. 

From  the  very  finest  of  these  houses,  in  the  very 
best  manner  of  Elizabethan  Gothic,  its  chimneys  and 
gables  nicking  the  early  dusk  of  an  Autumn  sky,  a 
long,  striped,  and  electrically  lighted  tarpaulin  canopy 
creeps  down  from  the  Gayland  mansion  to  the  street 
in  front,  like  a  glow-worm  swelled  to  prodigious  size. 
On  the  Avenue,  at  the  mouth  of  this  canopy,  are 
the  thousand  or  so  women,  girls  and  men,  blocking 
the  street.  Like  a  fly  wading  through  tar  the  passing 
cab  forces  its  way  through  this  throng,  its  driver 
purple  with  inexpressible  blasphemy.  Motors  and 
carriages  with  guests  can  scarcely  reach  the  curb  and 
discharge  their  brightly  clothed  and  cloaked  figures. 
For   a   week   the   three   daily   newspapers   have   been 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  19 

stirring  the  whole  little  city  to  a  sense  of  the  im- 
portance of  this  proud  occasion. 

Now  it  is  time  for  the  dance;  and  at  the  inward 
end  of  that  long  tarpaulin  gallery  Judge  Gayland's 
awesome  bowing  butler,  Berkeley,  in  a  neat  wine- 
coloured  livery,  swings  open  the  ponderous  black 
carven  oak  door,  and,  as  he  opens  it,  smites  your 
ears  with  a  medley  of  prattle  and  laughter  and  the 
sobbings  of  fiddles  from  a  hidden  orchestra.  Your 
eyes  he  smites  with  the  glare  of  many  electric  lights 
glowing  through  alabaster  shades,  beaming  upon  a 
scene  that  might  really  have  been  the  boast  of  a 
larger  world  than  Rossacre,  and  of  a  fatter  purse 
than  that  at  the  command  of  Judge  Gayland. 

However,  a  little  thing  like  meeting  his  bills  never 
troubled  Judge  Gayland. 

Truly  this  is  a  festal  moment  even  in  the  great 
Gayland  household,  howbeit  Judge  Gayland  would 
prefer  his  guests  to  believe  that  they  are  admitted  to 
see  little  more  than  the  everyday  routine  of  his  life. 
One  of  the  little  prides  of  Gayland's  life  it  is  that 
his  regular  retinue  of  servants  needs  no  reinforcements 
for  even  a  gathering  like  this.  Always  he  has  Berke- 
ley; and  Betty  the  parlor  maid;  and  Delphine,  at 
the  beck  of  Mrs.  Gayland  and  daughter  Annabel; 
and  Jonathan  the  coachman;  and  Etta  the  cook; 
and  over  them  all  Mrs.  Branstane  the  housekeeper, 
to  devise  and  oversee.  These,  in  the  perfection  of 
their  discipline,  have  always  impressed  Rossacre  with 
the  almost  infinite  resources  of  Gayland  —  which  is 
precisely  what  Judge  Gayland  has  most  desired.  Not 
a  board  in  his  floors  but  was  laid  for  just  such  a 
crush  as  presses  upon  it  now.  There,  inside  his 
drawing-room  door  you  find  him,  greeting  his  incoming 


20  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

guests.  Beside  him,  in  a  black  gown,  streaked  with 
white,  decently  decoUetee,  stands  his  wife,  effusively 
happy,  albeit  slow-moving,  on  account  of  animating 
a  mass  of  avoirdupois  that  would  have  thrust  dignity 
upon  a  kitten. 

"So  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Blank,"  she  is 
panting,  after  the  approved  Rossacre  formula.  "Let 
me  present  you  to  my  daughter,  Mr.  Blank." 

From  your  bow  to  a  young  lady  of  twenty,  and 
scarcely  so  bulky,  you  carry  away  a  fleeting  impres- 
sion of  much  curling  light-brown  hair,  a  vision  of  two 
grey-blue  eyes  set  in  a  face  that  is  very  very  thor- 
oughbred, very  very  girlish,  and,  it  occurs  to  you, 
very  full  of  mischief.  Such  is  Miss  Gayland.  You 
may  think  to  pause  and  impress  this  young  lady  with 
some  very  bright  remark  —  and  receive  from  Mrs. 
Gayland  instead  only  a  very  preoccupied  "Ee-yess, 
ee-yess,"  in  reply. 

Lastly  you  shake  the  soft  and  pulpy  hand  of  your 
host  the  Judge.  A  person  of  some  port  and  pomp 
you  find  him,  with  a  trick  of  rubbing  together  those 
soft  hands  of  his,  and  of  resting  them  on  the  lapels 
of  his  coat.  He  has  dashing  theatrical  grey  hair, 
and  two  blue  eyes  that  are  for  ever  smiling,  and  a 
black  moustache  that  shows  in  striking  contrast 
against  his  ruddy  cheeks.  In  swagger  garments,  that 
came  from  London,  you  would  learn,  if  you  inquired 
about  such  matters  as  Senator  Banks  did,  the  jovial 
Judge  acquires  an  air  of  jaunty  distinction. 

Dismissed  by  the  receiving  Gaylands,  you  find  your- 
self in  a  throng  of  guests,  of  a  flattering  density,  and 
lost  in  a  jungle  of  palms  from  the  Gayland  conserva- 
tories. Over  your  head  is  a  ceiling  crossed  by  heavy 
oaken  beams.     Under  your  feet  are  floors  of  box,  that 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  21 

blink  through  spaces  between  old  rugs  of  amazing 
nap  and  pattern  —  some  of  them  bought  in  Con- 
stantinople. Above  the  heavy  oak  wainscot  the  walls 
are  littered  with  paintings,  some  of  them  signed  with 
names  that  compel  respect  —  Benson,  Tarbell,  De- 
camp, and  Childe  Hassam.  Embroidered  hangings 
are  carelessly  flung  back  from  the  doorways,  that 
open  vistas  across  more  expanses  of  palm  and  of 
people,  in  library,  in  study,  in  a  far  flowery  con- 
servatory. Across  the  wide,  baronial  hall  is  yet 
another  string  of  rooms,  equally  populous  with  palm 
and  humanity,  and  equally  one  solid  drone  of 
conversation. 

"Well,  my  young  friend!" 

The  assailant  who  has  slapped  your  shoulder  is 
Claverson,  young  Rossacre  surgeon.  Rising  man, 
Claverson.  Already  his  children  are  snubbing  the 
Brown  boys,  till  lately  their  playmates.  For  a 
moment  you  and  Claverson  shout  together. 

"Capture  the  dowagers  first,  my  boy,  then  all  is 
yours!"  Claverson  winks.     "Now,  there  —  over  there 

—  you  see  that  elderly  woman  in  pink  —  in  pink, 
mark  you !  —  so  chesty  you  fear  she  will  burst  the 
bonds  of  her  attire?  It  is  Mrs.  Wentworth.  After 
Mrs.  Gayland  herself"  —  and  again  Claverson  winks 

—  "she  is  the  first  of  our  drawing-room  queens.  Back 
in  that  corner  and  black  with  rage,  because  she  hasn't 
spent  an  extra  penny  to  outdo  Mrs.  Wentworth' s 
daring  pink,  is  Mrs.  Landis,  in  lavender,  which  she 
has  worn  at  least  twice  before.     Mrs.  Landis  is  —  er 

—  a  newcomer  in  our  midst.  I  take  it  you  under- 
stand?"—  and  once  more  Dr.  Claverson  winks. 
"Over  yonder  is  Isabel  Warren,  aged  I  don't  know 
what.     I  complimented  her  on  her  youthful  appear- 


22  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

ance,  and  she  nearly  snapped  my  head  off  —  what 
you  might  call  a  hot-Waterloo  for  me.  She  's  yearn- 
ing for  a  Man  —  any  man  —  but  preferably  Mr. 
Penning.  Notice  her  wistful  eye.  Follow  it  and  you 
will  discover  at  once  where  Penning  has  hidden  him- 
self. Never  propose  to  that  girl  unless  you  mean  to 
be  taken  seriously.  Her  'Yes'  is  hung  on  a  hair- 
trigger." 

In  a  near  corner  is  Mrs.  Landis  herself,  who  next 
receives  Dr.  Claverson's  attentions.  "How  do  you 
do?"  he  devilishly  inquires  of  the  professional  invalid. 

"Pretty  well,  thank  you.  Doctor.  But  don't  you 
think  I  am  looking  badly  again?" 

"I  think  you  are  looking  perfectly  natural, 
Madam,"  he  replies. 

But  Nature  has  mercifully  constituted  Mrs.  Landis 
to  be  proof  against  such  a  shaft.  Only  Mrs.  Barlow 
is  equally  radiant.  Daughter  Julia,  will  you  believe, 
has  been  holding  Mr.  Penning,  no  less,  for  twenty 
minutes,  in  the  most  promising  conversation. 

"Julia,  bring  him  to  me  this  minute,"  her  proud 
and  hopeful  mother  commands.  And  dutifully 
Penning  submits.  "He  is  to  be  my  satellite  for  a 
while." 

"But,  Madam,  I  should  rather  be  a  son  to  you!" 
the  gallant  laughs  and  bows  —  with  dangerous  effects 
upon  Mrs.  Barlow. 

So,  the  famous  Penning,  debated  by  the  crowd 
outside! 

A  tall  fellow,  who  looks  as  if  he  might  have  been 
an  athlete  a  few  years  before  in  college.  Thirty- 
four,  probably.  Remarkable  air  of  settled  conviction 
in  his  face,  for  one  of  his  age.  Blue-grey  eyes,  brown 
hair,   slightly   wavy,   brushed  straight  back;    and   in 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  23 

attire  that  marks  what  generous  concessions  a  really 
strong  man  may  make  to  the  fashion-plate. 

In  a  few  moments  he  is  among  another  group  of 
ladies  —  the  sort  who  read  Wells,  and  Dostoievsky, 
and  Verhaeren,  and  pronounce  them  correctly  —  and 
the  particular  mystery  of  Penning  has  deepened, 
along  with  the  quality  of  his  speech. 

"Poor  fellow!"  Penning  is  saying.  "He  wanted  a 
quiet  life,  and  he  —  married!" 

Merrily  the  ladies  laugh,  and  one  of  them  laments, 
"So  young,  and  yet  so  hardened!" 

"Can't  help  it,  after  what  I  've  seen,"  he  laughs  in 
return. 

"Then  I  don't  envy  you  your  friends.  The  Ameri- 
can husbands  /  know  are  happy  —  and  quiet." 

"Ah,  I  'm  sure  their  American  wives  would  never 
permit  them  to  look  anything  else!" 

"Is  —  is  that  a  compliment.^"  The  lady  scans  his 
laughing  eyes,  and,  sure  now  of  his  subtler  meaning, 
shakes  her  head  and  sighs,  "Worse,  and  more  of  it! 
What  a  pretty  patriot  you  are!" 

"Madam,"  says  Penning  gravely,  "I  am  not  a 
patriot,  I  am  a  Republican." 

And,  blunting  the  edge  of  his  shaft  with  a  very 
mellow  quality  of  laughter,  he  moves  away,  and 
leaves  another  of  the  ladies  to  comment, 

"I  simply  cannot  fathom  that  man.  He  's  good- 
natured,  but  so  mocking  and  so  —  remote." 

"Oh,  now  I  know!"  pipes  a  pretty  young  thing  in 
the  group.  "For  days  I  have  wondered  what  figure 
that  man  reminds  me  of.  It's  Kitchener!  Of  course 
he  means  what  he  says.    He  hates  us,  and  shows  it." 

"My  dear,"  replies  a  motherly  personage,  whose 
eyes  have  before  this,  it  is  clear,  distinguished  a  few 


24  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

hawks  from  handsaws,  "he  does  suggest  a  bit  the 
Kitchener  we  've  heard  of.  But  I  think  I  have  Mr. 
Penning's  measure.  Have  hope,  and  don't  let  him 
deceive  you.  He  is  simply  a  very  shy  man,  who  is 
afraid  of  women,  and  throws  those  mystifications 
against  them  like  a  —  like  a  barbed  wire  entangle- 
ment —  to  protect  his  tender  feelings."  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  signal  to  the  dance  is  sounded  on  a 
clarion  trumpet  in  the  orchestra.  Up  the  broad  stair, 
round  the  wide  gallery  on  the  second  floor  the  hundred 
guests  troop  arm  in  arm,  and  up  a  final  flight  to  the 
great  ball-room  which  spreads  its  oaken  beaming  and 
its  glassy  floor  over  the  whole  house  beneath  it. 
Something  of  a  show-place,  too,  that  ball-room,  with 
its  carved  open  trusses  and  braces.  Architects  from 
as  far  as  Philadelphia  have  come  to  take  note  of  it. 
To-night  festoons  of  ivy  and  oakleaves,  trailing  over 
the  beams  and  down  the  columns,  have  made  it  a 
miniature  forest,  and  all  the  settees  along  the  walls 
have  been  turned  into  grottos  of  roses  and  smilax. 
Hidden  behind  the  palms  in  a  balcony  the  orches- 
tra whines  and  toots  into  tune.  Beaus  are  in  hot 
competition  filling  dance  orders  for  expectant  belles. 

The  music  strikes  up,  and  so  the  night  is  frolicked 
away. 


CHAPTER   IV 

FLIRTED  away,  chattered  away,  danced  away. 
Certainly   Rossacre  is  no  safe  retreat    for    a 
timorous  young  man.     Danger  stalks  him  from 
a  thousand  pairs  of  eyes,  shading  all  the  way  from 
blue  to  brown,  from  angel  to  coquette. 

There,  in  the  nearest  smilax  bower,  sits  a  tearing 
beauty  who  would  have  made  a  Reynolds,  a  Romney 
still  greater.  How  they  would  have  gloried  in  her 
fresh  cheeks,  in  her  mass  of  gold  hair!  What  would 
they  not  have  made  her  blues  say  —  so  demure  but 
so  sure  of  their  power,  and  so  mischievous  in  its 
employment! 

"Who  is  it.»^    Who  is  it?"  you  demand  of  Claverson. 

"Isn't  she  a  pippin!  Sylvia  Ranks.  The  boys  call 
her  'Silvery.'  Her  father  has  a  bit  of  coin,  you 
know." 

Pippin  indeed!  "Silvery"  forsooth!  Already  you 
are  jealous  of  the  half  dozen  puppies  who  sport  about 
her,  without  the  wit  to  know,  as  you  do,  how  rare 
anywhere  is  such  superlative  sweetness!  If  Mr.  Pen- 
ning has  turned  away  from  that,  you  have  a  burning 
opinion  of  his  taste  —  or  a  burning  curiosity  to  meet 
his  later  choice! 

"Eh,  Sylvia?"  one  of  the  puppies  is  saying.  "Off 
with  the  old  love,  on  with  the  new.  I  saw  him  with 
you  on  the  links  yesterday.  And  my  word,  it  took 
you  four  hours  to  make  the  round.  Eh,  Sherry?" 
And  he  points  his  clumsy  innuendo  with  a  hearty  dig 
in  the  ribs  of  a  handsome  laughing  devil  standing  by. 


26  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

What  wouldn't  you  give  to  have  Sherry's  good 
reason  for  blushing  so  proudly,  for  inspiring  Sylvia's 
pretty  pretended  frown! 

"Was  it  four  lost  balls,  or  one  lost  heart,  that  took 
you  so  long?"  another  idiot  gibbers. 

It  isn't  witty.  It  isn't  deep.  A  cynic  like  Claver- 
son  laughs  at  such  frisking  of  kitten  and  puppy,  this 
absolute  of  unimportance,  and  thinks  it  praiseworthy 
and  superior  to  forget  that  in  his  own  case  he  solved 
the  principal  question  of  his  life  in  much  the  same 
manner.  What  wiser  instinct  is  it  tells  these  young 
things  they  are  living  the  one  beautiful  and  spotless 
moment  the  world  will  ever  give  them,  and  warns 
them  to  make  the  most  of  it? 

Everywhere  about  this  flashing  of  mischievous  eyes, 
this  parting  of  pretty  lips,  the  ripple  of  that  laughter 
which  only  once  in  life  is  so  light,  so  gay.  What  a 
void  is  left  when  that  laughing  devil  Sherry  Brookes 
leads  Sylvia  away  to  a  dance!  And  the  impudent 
boy  who  swept  Julia  Barlow  out  of  your  very  arm 
and  away  downstairs,  alleging  a  "look  at  the  night- 
blooming  cereus,"  for  all  the  excuse  he  gave  you! 

A  ready  imitator  overheard  him,  and  soon  other 
pairs  drift  away,  on  the  same  quest.  That  night- 
blooming  cereus  is  in  universal  request.  They  are 
seeking  it,  two  and  two,  in  the  library,  behind  the 
palms;  in  the  drawing-room,  behind  the  piano;  even 
out  on  the  moonlit  lawn.  It  wasn't  there  —  it  wasn't 
anywhere  —  but  you  know  they  found  it. 

Didn't  you  overhear  one  mother  remark  to  another 
—  and  agreed  with  her,  too,  — 

"Dear  me,  this  night-blooming  cereus  is  becoming 
serious  indeed!" 

An  ass  named  Barnes  even  proposed  the  same  quest 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  27 

to  Miss  Gayland  herself.  "Aw  —  aw,  Miss  Gaylan'," 
he  is  saying,  "don't  you  know,  you  might  be  just  the 
opposite  of  a  Mormon,  if  you  wished!" 

Whatever  such  drivel  may  mean,  "society"  affords 
it  in  Rossacre  as  everywhere  else;  and  Miss  Gayland 
is  in  for  a  liberal  share  of  it.  There  she  sits,  in  her 
flowery  bower,  a  dozen  siUy  fops  about  her.  Poor 
lady,  she  has  the  misfortune  to  be  the  catch  of  the 
town,  with  her  father's  wealth  and  distinction,  and 
her  own  thoroughbred  face,  and  witty  tongue,  and 
warm  heart.  Never  warmer  than  at  that  moment, 
you  are  sure,  as  the  celebrated  Penning  rushes  up  to 
her  rescue  and  swings  her  away  in  a  dance.  And  for 
that  dance  and  for  two  more,  Miss  Gayland  is  seen 
no  more  of  her  professional  danglers. 

For,  somehow,  the  lawn  has  invited  the  notice  of 
Miss  Gayland  and  Mr.  Penning.  There,  soon,  the 
Autumn  air,  it  occurs  to  Mr.  Penning,  is  poorly  tem- 
pered to  Miss  Gayland's  filmy  attire  —  "a  puff  of  blue 
smoke,"  he  calls  it  —  and  they  explore  the  palms,  the 
orchids,  and  all  the  Judge's  pet  blooms,  in  the  con- 
servatory. With  a  gift  for  that  sort  of  thing,  the 
Judge  has  cunningly  timed  his  grand  occasion  to  a 
full  moon,  with  hopes  of  luck  in  the  weather,  and 
the  weather  has  been  duly  obedient  to  his  hopes. 
With  more  cunning  still  the  Judge  has  dimmed  the 
inner  lights  to  a  minimum  glow,  and  the  place  is  com- 
pletely exposed  to  the  pitiless  eye  of  the  willing  moon 
above. 

"Don't  you  think  father  organizes  the  moon,  and 
things,  rather  well.^"  says  Miss  Gayland,  with  her 
face  brazenly  raised  for  a  kiss  —  from  the  moon. 

The  reply  is  a  hearty  laugh  and  the  perpetration  of 
a  kiss  —  on  a  finger-tip  —  by   Mr.   Penning  instead. 


28  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

It  is  notable  now  that  his  mocking  remarks  have 
ceased. 

"What  a  pity  it  is,"  says  he,  "that  we  always  sleep 
through  such  nights  as  this.  And  when  there  are  only 
about  two  hundred  and  fifty  full  and  clear  moons  in 
a  lifetime.     I  hate  to  miss  one  of  them." 

"Yes,  isn't  there  something  sad  about  the  moon  I 
I  never  look  out  on  a  night  like  this  without  thinking 
of  the  hundreds  of  grey-haired  women  who  have  never 
had  sweet  things  said  to  them  under  that  beautiful 
thing  up  there." 

"I  am  certain,"  says  Penning,  "that  the  maker  of  a 
speech  like  that  will  never  join  those  grey-haired 
women!"  And  as  Miss  Gayland  beams  almost  like 
the  moon,  he  adds,  "Only,  I  begin  to  be  certain 
that  I  am  not  the  one  to  save  you.  Only  five 
dances  all  evening!  Every  man  here  has  been  as 
fortunate." 

"Hush!"  Miss  Gayland  peers  about  to  see  if  they 
may  be  overheard.  "You  forget  that  election  is 
coming  on!" 

So  they  laugh,  and  ply  their  wits,  and  bandy  those 
innuendos  which  say  nothing  and  mean  all. 

"I  believe  F  ve  got  a  better  opinion  than  yours  of 
your  moon,"  says  Penning,  then,  when  words  have 
failed  them  for  a  moment,  and  the  magnet  of  the  sky 
attracts  their  eyes  again.  "Think  what  it  knows. 
Think  of  the  millions  and  millions  of  lovely  things  it 
really  has  heard.  And  the  millions  more  it  is  going  to 
hear.  I  know  what  I  'm  talking  about,  because"  —  he 
smiled  down  at  her  —  "I'm  going  to  add  to  the 
number  myself." 

"That's  number  one?" 

"And  here's  number  two." 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  29 

There,  too  soon,  this  swift  progression,  arithmetical 
and  other,  came  to  a  stop,  and  the  pretty  stage  took 
on  a  bit  of  real  drama. 

,  Through  the  door  came  the  voice  of  a  man,  to  the 
staccato  accompaniment  of  footsteps. 

"It 's  my  last  oath,  I  tell  you,"  the  voice  was  saying 
—  instantly  recognized  as  the  property  of  Sherry 
Brookes.  "If  you  won't  hear  me  here,  will  you  listen 
when  I  take  you  home.^^" 

After  a  pause  a  soft  contralto  published  the  presence 
of  Sylvia  Banks. 

"Are  you  sure  of  taking  me  home?"  she  asked. 
"Besides,  you  know  how  eager  father  always  is  to  turn 
off  the  lights." 

In  the  misty  glow  they  made  out  Sherry,  dropped 
disconsolate  upon  a  seat  behind  the  farthest  cluster 
of  palms,  with  Sylvia  standing  apart,  absorbed  in  an 
orchid. 

"Seems  to  me,  Sylvia,"  they  heard  Sherry  say,  "you 
yourself  are  always  ready  to  turn  off  the  lights  for  me." 

"No.     Waiting  for  you  to  turn  them  up." 

"And  I  've  been  a  long  time  about  it?" 

"A  long  time,  Sheridan." 

Between  all  these  remarks  a  pause. 

"It  has  been  long."  The  remark  seemed  to  come 
from  a  bowed  head.  Then  more  clearly  —  "Who  is 
going  to  take  you  home,  Sylvia?  Not  that  fellow 
Irvin  Crist,  surely!" 

"He  's  a  very  nice  boy." 

"A  Bhinestone  in  the  rough!  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't 
care,  so  long  as  it  isn't  Andy  Penning.  Your  father 
seems  to  have  given  him  a  patent  on  you!" 

"Mr,  Penning  seems  to  be  —  occupied  with  — 
another  set  of  lights." 


30  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"The  —  devil  —  you  say!  Do  you  mean  Annabel? 
Why,  your  father  will  have  him  jailed  for  it!" 

Sylvia  bent  more  busily  over  the  orchid.  So  busily 
that  Sherry  came  and  stood  beside  her  —  where  they 
blocked  the  only  avenue  of  escape. 

"Sylvia,"  he  said,  close  to  her  ear,  and  yet  audibly, 
because  eagerly,  "awful  rummy  that  I've  been,  I.'m 
not  such  a  cad  as  to  want  to  profit  at  another  chap's 
expense.  But  —  if  I  'turn  up  the  lights'  —  isn't  there 
a  chance  for  me?  I  tell  you  I  've  sworn  my  last 
oath." 

"To  me?  Or  to  your  new  room-mate,  Mr. 
Penning?" 

"Sylvia!  .  .  .  It 's  a  lot  I  owe  to  Andy.  He 's  done 
a  good  deal  for  me.     More  than  you  '11  ever  know — " 

Sylvia's  glance  of  sharp  inquiry  halted  him. 

"But  not  everything,  Sylvia.  A  chap  like  me  has 
got  to  owe  all  there  is  in  him  to  a  girl.  And  in  my 
case,  that 's  you." 

Sylvia  looked  him  over.  No  woman  is  armoured 
against  such  a  stroke  at  her  essential  being.  Hand- 
some, thoroughbred,  gifted,  debonair,  and  tearing 
wastrel  —  often  Sylvia  had  wondered  what  Rossacre, 
what  her  own  life,  would  be  like  without  the  once 
inseparable  Sherry  of  her  girlhood.  And  she  never 
forget  the  obeisance  that  he  made  her  then,  so  grave 
and  earnest  for  him.  She  remembered  that,  without 
touching  her  hand  —  as  if  not  to  contaminate  it  — 
he  made  a  graceful  pretense  of  kissing  it. 

"Good  night,  Sylvia,"  he  was  saying.  "I  shan't 
trouble  you  again  to-night.  But  you  're  going  to  be 
proud  of  me  yet.  That  alone  will  be  a  pretty  nice 
thing  to  owe  to  you.  I  shouldn't  care  to  owe  it  to 
anyone  else.     Good  night!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  31 

Sherry  paused,  with  thought  and  a  smile  and  the 
moon  lighting  the  face  that  he  submitted  to  Sylvia's 
quizzical  study.  At  least  his  exacting  judge  was  enough 
concerned,  it  occurred  to  him,  to  resent  a  rival  agency 
in  his  reform.  Then  he  rushed  away,  to  hide  a  sudden 
propensity  to  chuckle  at  her  expense,  but  chiefly  to  hunt 
up  some  sort  of  temptation  right  away,  and  wither  it, 
and  accomplish  something  at  once.  And  slowly,  with  a 
shrewd  little  smile  of  her  own,  perhaps  of  understanding 
and  approval,  Sylvia  followed  him.   .  .   . 

They  heard  her  footfalls  dying  away  in  the  passage 
leading  back  to  the  dining-room  —  lost,  finally,  in  a 
burst  of  distant  and  masculine  laughter. 

"Well!"  said  Penning.  "Your  father's  moon  is  in 
fairly  good  working  order,  don't  you  think?" 

For  an  instant  Annabel  scanned  him  closely.  "They 
say  one  can  never  tell  when  you  mean  what  you  say," 
she  said.  "But  I  think  that's  because  you  generally 
mean  a  good  deal.  And  —  /  trust  your  meaning, 
whatever  it  is." 

Again  the  distant  laughter  burst  forth. 

"I  hope,"  said  Annabel,  as  it  died  away,  "father 
hasn't  made  the  punch  too  strong  for  poor  Sylvia. 
Sherry,  I  mean!"  She  laughed.  "But  perhaps  it's 
just  the  same." 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  the  distance,  during  an  intermission,  in  an  at- 
mosphere mellowed  by  agencies  other  than  the 
moonlight,  Annabel's  fears  have  been  more  ex- 
pertly and  candidly  appraised. 

In  the  card-room,  normally  the  Judge's  study,  the 
bloods,  ten  of  them,  have  gathered  for  a  sedative, 
liquid  or  vaporous. 

Honest  enough  chaps,  all  of  them,  but  patterned  after 
the  one  type  that  a  siren  outer  world  seems  to  leave 
behind  to  the  inland  town.  Away  fly  the  braver 
spirits,  and  bequeath  this  easy  importance  to  the 
lazier  crew  at  home.  One  of  them  is  a  young  lawyer 
by  profession,  with  a  phenomenally  long  drive  at 
golf.  One  is  a  capital  waltzer,  with  an  incidental  in- 
terest in  architecture.  One  is  head  clerk  in  the  freight 
offices.  But  a  single  portrait  suffices  for  them  all.  All 
are  slavishly  concerned  with  the  girls  and  the  fashions 
—  as  established  by  the  heroes  of  shirt  and  collar  ad- 
vertisements. All  bring  their  hair  and  their  clothing 
to  the  same  lofty  ideal.  Acutely  aware  of  themselves, 
blissfully  unaware  of  the  world,  they  differ  only  in  the 
colour  of  their  eyes,  in  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

Even  in  their  reactions  to  an  incomparable  array 
of  girlish  beauty,  they  are  all  alike. 

"Well  —  well  —  well!''  one  of  them  can  scarcely 
wait  for  the  closing  of  the  door  to  say.  "Things  are 
certainly  doing  in  the  little  old  town!  Did  you  only 
notice!" 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  33 

"Notice  what?" 

"Notice  what!  Were  you  asleep?  The  ankles,  for 
one  thing.  I  quite  approve  of  the  prevailing  style  in 
skirts,  thank  you!"  — 

"Yep,"  a  third  interrupts.  "Even  old  Isabel 
Warren  gets  by." 

"/sabel  Warren?     Was-a-belle  Warren,  you  mean!" 

"Well,  her  little  pile  in  the  bank  looks  as  young  as 
ever  to  me!" 

They  all  speak  at  once,  lighting  cigars  while  Berke- 
ley observes  their  taste  in  liquors. 

"Yes,  but  did  you  only  notice!''  the  original  speaker 
finds  an  opening  again. 

"Notice  what?'' 

"Oh  —  nothing.  Nothing  except  that  the  great 
and  only  Penning  has  either  got  the  G.  B.  from  Sylvia 
Banks,  or  else  he 's  been  thumbing  Bradstreet  and 
found  that  Gayland  has  more  money.  I  heard  that 
the  Senator  got  a  fee-rightful  snub  from  Walker 
Landis.  And  they  say  Gayland  is  going  to  be  de- 
feated for  the  Judgeship.     Anything  to  notice!" 

"Piffle!  I  noticed  nothing,  except  that  Penning  was 
more  human  than  I  ever  saw  him  before.  Never 
knew  he  could  be  agreeable.  To  everybody.  What  's 
started  the  thaw?" 

"Agreeable  especially  to  Annabel  Gayland,  eh?" 

"He  was,  all  right.  Guess  he  smells  the  old  man's 
money." 

"Oh,  damn  money!  For  land's  sake,  somebody, 
tell  me  who  is  this  Mrs.  Bumstead,  or  Brimstone,  or 
something  —  housekeeper  here,  or  whatever  she  is ! 
Funny  I  never  noticed  her  till  to-night.  But  to-night? 
Say!"^ 

"Did  you  notice  her  too?" 


34  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Notice  her?  Say!  I  caught  her  eye.  My  stars, 
what  an  eye! 

"Some  little  eye!     I  caught  it  myself." 

"Something  doing  there,  my  boy;  something  doing 
there!" 

"H'm,  I've  always  wondered  who  that  woman  is. 
And  how  she  happened  here.  Something  odd  about 
it.     Do  you  think — .*^" 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  before  I  'm  a  year  older 
I  'm  going  to  get  hep  there.    That 's  my  ultimatum." 

"Sounds  like  Sherry  Brookes." 

"Which  reminds  me.  Where  is  Sherry  Brookes? 
Talk  about  driving  a  horse  to  water!  I  couldn't  get 
him  to  smell  the  punch.  And  it  is  some  punch,  be- 
lieve me.  The  shock  nearly  killed  me.  What  ails  old 
Sherry.V 

"0-oh,  damn  Sherry!  That  Mrs.  Branstane  gets 
me.  Who  the  devil  is  she?  Why  have  I  never  seen 
her  before?" 

"She  does  seem  to  have  blossomed  out  all  of  a 
sudden.     I  wonder  — " 

"Bother  Mrs.  Branstane!  Where's  old  Sherry?  I 
miss  him.     Nothing  goes  right  without  Sherry." 

"I  've  got  my  own  hunch  where  he  is.  He's  wal- 
lowing in  the  moonlight  —  the  little  old  moonlight 
—  with  little  old  Sylvia  Banks.     That 's  where." 

"With  Sylvia?" 

"You  said  it." 

"You're  off  a  mile.  What  about  Penning?  He's 
got  a  mortgage  on  that." 

"Mortgage  nothing.  It's  Sherry  Brookes  again. 
That 's  what  I  'm  telling  you.  The  Babbling  Brookes. 
He  's  even  gone  and  turned  a  new  leaf,  for  her  dear 
sake,  what  do  you  think!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  35 

"Page  2100!" 

"Just  for  a  minute,  while  her  old  man's  back  is 
turned I" 

"The  old  man's  got  a  back  to  nurse,  too.  I  saw 
the  stab  it  got  from  Walker  Landis.  It 's  all  up  with 
the  little  Senator  if  that  fellow  gets  after  him." 

"Well,  it  is  wonderful  how  that  man  Landis  has 
got  on.  President  of  his  own  bank  now.  And  nothing 
but  a  hostler  a  few  years  ago!" 

"Damn  Landis!  How  about  our  little  dance? 
Best  one  the  Gaylands  have  ever  given!" 

"And  one  of  the  last." 

"Nonsense!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say,  that 's  all."  In  a  whisper  —  "Things 
don't  seem  to  be  solid  round  here  any  more.  You 
can  feel  it  in  the  air." 

"Ah-ha!  Mrs.  Branstane,  eh?  .  .  .  Where  did  she 
come  from,  anyway?     What  is  she  for?" 

"Where  did  the  Senator  come  from,  for  that 
matter?     And  the  Judge?     And — " 

"And  Penning.     Don't  forget  the  great  Penning!" 

"Now  you'll  know!    Here  's  Ted  Lacy,  by  heck." 

"'Lo,  Ted.  Come  in.  And  shut  the  door.  We've 
ordered  for  you.     Sit  down." 

"  And  settle  an  argument,  Ted.  There  's  Senator 
Banks.     Who  is  he,  anyway?" 

The  gentleman  addressed  as  Ted  seats  himself 
languidly  at  the  large  long  table,  waits  a  moment  for 
Berkeley  to  appear  with  his  rickey,  and  sips  it  when 
it  arrives.  Looking  about  him  with  an  air  of  superb 
authority  he  condescends  to  say, 

"Nothing." 

Lacy  is  a  short  man  of  fifty,  with  two  dabs  of  white 
whisker  under  his  ears  —  a  misplaced  and  misguided 


36  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

bishop.  It  is  said  of  him  that  he  stands  so  frequently 
in  the  street-cars  ostensibly  in  deference  to  the  ladies 
but  really  in  deference  to  the  immaculate  and  invari- 
able crease  in  his  trousers. 

"But  is  it  true  that  the  Senator  once  laid  bricks?" 

"He  did." 

"What  is  he  worth  to-day?" 

"About  five  hundred  thou.  — if  he  can  keep  it." 

"And  what's  old  Gayland  got?" 

Lacy  inhales  his  drink  for  a  moment.  "Judge  Gay- 
land  used  to  be  worth  about  seven  hundred  thousand." 

"What  has  he  now?" 

"Bright's  disease." 

"And  a  housekeeper!" 

"How  do  you  know  he  has  a  housekeeper?"  Lacy 
fixes  the  guilty  speaker  with  a  glittering  eye. 

"Who  is  that  woman?"  they  chorus. 

Lacy  selects  a  long  cigar  from  the  generous  box  on 
the  table.  "All  I  know" — he  lights  it  —  "is  what 
I  have  heard.  The  story  is  that  Gayland  and  she 
were  boy  and  girl  together  —  in  some  village,  I  be- 
lieve, at  the  western  end  of  the  State.  Her  family 
took  him  in,  an  orphan.  And  they  raised  him  and 
made  him." 

"Now  he's  returning  the  compliment?" 

"He  is  said,"  Lacy  fended,  "to  be  repaying  the 
debt." 

"Well,  anyway,  where  did  he  get  all  his  money. 
He  hasn't  any  brains." 

"Perhaps"  —  Lacy  drew  a  long  puff  —  "that 's  why 
he  got  it." 

"No,  but  really?" 

"Merely  owned  a  farm  that  the  railroad  needed  for 
a  freight  yard.    And  was  lucky  with  his  investments." 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  37 

"Well,  is  Penning  going  to  land  his  daughter?" 

"Do  you  really  think  that  fellow  is  going  to  be 
Governor,  or  Senator,  or  something?" 

"Mr.  Penning  is  an  incalculable  man." 

"Oh,  really!  Then  why  does  he  bother  with  Ross- 
acre!" 

Lacy  laughs,  out  of  the  fullness  of  his  wisdom. 
"Rossacre  is  his  little  step-ladder." 

"Damned  snob!" 

"No.     Only  shy." 

"Shy  on  manners,  certainly!  What  has  he  buried 
under  that  tombstone  of  a  face?" 

"Nothing  dark  that  I  know  of,"  Lacy  laughs  at 
their  jealousy.  "Pretty  wild  lad.  Penning,  when  he 
first  came  here.  H'm!  I  remember  one  night  when  he 
got  so  tight  that  we  were  all  scared  and  had  him  haled 
to  the  hospital.  Next  morning  Brother  Penning  was 
rather  surprised  to  wake  up  in  a  nice  pink  embroidered 
silk  nightie!" 

"Good  Lord!     Penning?" 

"In  a  thing  like  that?     Where  did  he  get  it?" 

Again  Lacy  fixed  the  guilty  speaker  with  a  sen- 
tentious eye.  "No  man  is  obliged  to  incriminate 
himself,"  he  murmured. 

They  all  laughed,  and  required  fresh  drinks  in  cele- 
bration of  the  witticism. 

And,  stimulated  by  the  applause  and  by  a  second 
rickey,  Lacy  continues,  "I  heard  somebody  say  he  felt 
uncertain  in  this  household.  I  've  felt  it  myself.  Don't 
believe  the  Judge  will  be  re-elected." 

"Who  's  going  to  crowd  him  out?" 

"That  —  is  on  the  lap  of  the  gods." 

"Penning,  I  suppose?" 

"Then  you  know  something?" 


38  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Lacy  studies  the  ceiling  for  a  moment,  then  launches 
his  thunderbolt.     "If  he  wants  it." 

''Penning?  My  word!"  One  of  the  boys  leaps  up 
and  whistles. 

"Some- thing  do-ing  in  the  little  old  town!  Well  — 
well  — well!" 

"Shut  up!     Here  he  is!" 

Enter  Mr.  Penning,  with  hat  and  coat.  "  Good  morn- 
ing, gentlemen,"  he  says.     "Nice  dance?" 

No  one  can  muster  an  answer. 

Then  Lacy:  "Good  Lord,  Penning!  Going  so  soon? 
Where  're  you  bound  for  at  this  hour  of  the  night?" 

"Home.     Little  bit  of  work." 

"But,  man,  you  '11  cave  in  one  of  these  days  if  you 
work  all  night!" 

"Berkeley,  one  of  those  juleps  of  yours,  will  you? 
Er  —  you  know  the  kind  —  without  the  whole  flora 
and  fauna  and  pharmacopoeia  of  North  America  in  it." 

Leisurely  Penning  sips  the  concoction,  and  then,  ac- 
cepting a  cigarette  with  an  amiable  nod:  "Nobody 
seen  Sherry  Brookes?" 

"Nowhere  to  be  found." 

"H'm!"  Penning  muses,  and  slowly  melts  his  frown 
into  a  smile  of  satisfaction.  "I  can't  understand  his 
sensational  virtue."  And  with  a  word  or  two  more 
he  excuses  himself  and  retires  to  his  rooms  at  The 
Club. 

"Has  any  one  first  aid  for  frostbite?"  says  one,  in 
feeble  mimicry  of  Penning's  precise  speech,  as  he 
withdraws. 

"That  man,"  Lacy  pronounces,  "is  the  decentest 
chap  I  know.  You  hate  him  because  he  upsets  your 
self-conceit." 

"Not  mine,  if  you  please  —  with  such  posing!" 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  39 

"That's  all  a  blind.  Penning  knows  that  that  sort 
of  thing  is  expected  of  him,  and  he  lays  it  on  a  little 
thick,  in  irony,  just  to  amuse  himself.  If  you  don't 
believe  he  's  something  of  a  fellow,  wait  and  see  what 
he  accomplishes  with  that  masterly  silence  of  his.  A 
year  ago  he  could  have  had  the  State  Senatorship. 
That  gift  he  knew  was  the  apple  of  Banks's  eye  — 
and  Banks  got  it.  There  's  Penning  for  you.  I  tell 
you  the  Powers  have  got  him  down  for  something. 
I've  battled  him  in  court  and  I  know!" 

"Well,  damn  your  man  Penning,  anyway.  Where's 
Sherry.^  There's  a  chap  for  you!  Bully  old  Sherry. 
Where  is  that  boy!" 

"Oh,"  — Lacy  —  "he  '11  be  here  in  a  minute.  Can't 
keep  Sherry  and  a  merry  party  far  apart." 

"Bully  old  Sherry!  He's  a  devil,  but  he'd  pawn 
his  last  shirt  for  any  poor  beggar.  Let  's  order  him  a 
drink." 

"Order  that  boy  a  drink .^  Let's  order  him  a 
drunk!" 

All  ten  of  the  boys  indulged  their  ingenuity  in  weird 
inventions  for  Sherry  —  and  further  braved  the  con- 
ventions by  consuming  their  fancies.  In  two  minutes 
half  of  them  felt  an  inward  summons  toward  the  outer 
air.  To  those  fixed  to  their  chairs  Sheridan  Brookes 
at  last  disclosed  himself. 

The  colloquy  was  brief,  however. 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike!" — Their  slang  at  best  was  a 
bit  musty.     "  Where  you  been  .^ " 

"Wha's  a  matter  with  your  face?  You  look  as  if 
you  'd  just  seen  your  Maker.  And  I  never  thought 
you  'd  meet!" 

"What's  a  matter.  Sherry,  ol'  man?  Haven't  been 
larking   with   our   new   friend   Mrs.    Branstane,   have 


40  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

you?  Just  like  you  to  score  there  first,  you  devil! 
Let 's  cut  this  and  organize  a  little  skirt  party,  what 
do  you  say,  Sherry  1" 

"Not  to-night,  thank  you,"  Sherry  ventures,  care- 
less of  the  shock. 

"Wha-at!  Oh,  look  at  him!  He's  disguised  himself 
by  being  sober!" 

"Nonsense,  Sherry!  No  use  goin'  to  bed,  old  f'lah! 
Soon  time  for  breakfast.  Only  time  for  a  little  tear 
in  between.     What  d'ya  say.*^" 

"Not  now,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Oh,  shucks,  old  f'lah!     You're  not  yourself." 

"Sherry,"  Lacy  pronounces  —  for  Lacy  always  pro- 
nounced gravely,  and  now  with  the  extra  gravity  that 
issues  from  punch,  "Sherry  is  going  to  show  us  to 
what  lengths  of  sobriety  he  is  willing  to  go!" 

"Well,"  Sherry  spoke  up  brightly,  gleefully,  "do 
you  fellows  really  want  to  know  why  I  looked  in  here  ? 
Just  to  see  if  I  could  tear  away  again.    And  I  can." 

He  slammed  the  door  upon  six  cases  of  apoplexy. 

The  boys  stared  at  each  other  in  unanimous  stupe- 
faction, and  one  of  them  voiced  it  —  "Tell  —  tell 
mother  that  I  died  bravely !  .  .  .  Well  —  well !  .  .  .  Is 
this  heaven,  or  is  it  my  own,  my  native  town!  Some- 
thing doing,  b'lie'  me.'" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  one  person  in  Judge  Gayland's  house  that 
night  least  aware  of  these  ominous  portents 
is  the  one  they  chiefly  threaten  —  the  genial 
Judge  Gayland  himself,  rubbing  his  hands  and  sweep- 
ing to  all  his  grandest  bow,  in  the  manner  of  the 
perfect  host. 

"Ah!  Good  evening,  Mrs.  Barlow.  And  Mrs. 
Wentworth!  Your  presence  flatters  me!  Ah,  Mrs. 
Landis,  allow  me  to  present  Mr.  Blank.  Miss  Stan- 
ton of  Washington,  Mr.  Blank.  So  happy  to  see  you 
with  us,  Miss  Warren!  You  know  Mr.  Blank?  Mr. 
Blank  do  you  know.  .  .  .  Ah,  Miss  Siddons,  you  look 
happy  this  evening.  These  bowers  in  the  corners  — 
I  know  you  young  people  are  blessing  me  for  that 
happy  thought!     Ha,  ha!" 

So  he  chatters,  laughs,  makes  obeisance  among  his 
guests. 

With  the  men  Judge  Gayland  has  got  on  scarcely 
so  well.  If  for  nothing  else,  they  hate  him  for  his 
success  in  impressing  the  women.  Gayland  the  vain 
boy  they  may  never  have  known;  but  there  is  no 
mistaking  their  wholesome  contempt  for  this  inflation 
of  the  Judge  of  their  acquaintance. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  Judge  has  come 
upon  Senator  Banks.  "Well,  Senator!  And,  my 
dear  man,  are  you  having  your  fill  of  enjoyment?" 
The  Judge  has  had  but  the  most  innocent  aim  at 
jocosity;    yet,  fresh  from  the  smiles  of  some  dowager, 


42  THE  END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

he  has  contrived  to  flavour  the  question  with  the  usual 
pinch  of  condescension. 

"Oh,  hello,  Judge!"  the  Senator  responds,  shaking 
the  hand  of  his  host.  "Mighty  jolly  crowd  you  have 
here  —  mighty  fine !  You  do  know  how  to  entertain ; 
allow  me  to  say  that!"  The  Senator  has  in  him  the 
born  tradesman's  instinct  to  be  outwardly  offended 
at  nothing.  Inwardly  he  was  thinking,  "You  gay  old 
cock,  now  aren't  you  in  your  element,  strutting  before 
all  these  hens!  But  for  all  your  grand  airs,  my  man,  I 
can  buy  you  out  any  day!" 

Moreover  the  Senator  was  stiU  troubled  by  that 
little  incident  of  Landis's  snub  at  the  gate. 

"Pooh,  pooh,  man,"  the  Judge  protests:  "what  is 
life  for  but  to  be  enjoyed!"  —  which  was  pretty  much 
the  Judge's  philosophy  in  life. 

As  it  was,  even  one  woman  in  Rossacre  had  never 
been  blind  to  the  character  of  Judge  Gayland  — 
perhaps  from  enjoying  superior  advantages  of  ob- 
servation. And  that  very  night  "things"  began  to 
be  "doing." 

At  the  very  height  of  the  festivities  Mrs.  Gayland 
was  summoned  from  an  exhilarating  confab  with  Mrs. 
Brantley  and  Mrs.  Wyeth,  touching  upon  the  peculi- 
arities of  a  certain  Mrs.  Travis.  The  summons  came 
from  her  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Branstane. 

There  a  truly  tragic  figure  appeared  upon  the  scene, 
and  something  truly  significant  was  immediately  doing 
in  Rossacre. 

She  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  in  the 
little  entry  leading  into  the  ball-room. 

"Well,  are  they  ready  for  the  refreshments?"  Mrs. 
Branstane  folded  her  arras  and  looked  down  upon  her 
mistress. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  43 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Nellie;  I  don't  know,"  Mrs. 
Gayland  gasped  out  of  her  flustered  chest,  smiling 
back  to  the  group  she  had  just  left,  her  head  still  too 
full  of  that  shocking  Mrs.  Travis  to  focus  itself  sud- 
denly upon  the  burning  issue  of  refreshments.  "I 
don't  know,"  she  repeated,  waiting  for  her  ideas  to 
gather  and  condense. 

"You  never  do  know!" 

It  happened  to  be  the  truth,  though  it  came  from 
a  servant. 

"Why,  TVeMie!" 

"I  say  you  never  know  your  own  mind!" 

"Why,  TVeMie!"  But  Mrs.  Gayland's  tone,  not 
that  of  withering  indignation  at  such  language  even 
from  a  superior  servant,  has  rather  the  aggrieved  sur- 
prise of  one  who  is  suddenly  and  wrongly  accused  of 
crime.     "What  can  you  meanf" 

"I  mean  what  I  say!  Shall  —  I  —  have  —  the  — 
refreshments  served  now  ?  The  things  have  been  ready 
this  long  while!" 

"Have  they,  have  they?"  In  consternation,  hurt, 
her  mind  burdened  with  overmuch  to  say,  Mrs.  Gay- 
land  caught  at  this  testimony  to  the  efficiency  of  her 
household.  "Well,  then,  do  you  think  we  might  serve 
now,  Nellie.^     What  do  you  think.^" 

"Bosh!  That's  for  you  to  decide.  I  can't  see  to 
everything!" 

Mrs.  Branstane's  face  was  curiously  flushed  and 
eager.  It  was  as  if  she  were  risking  a  rash  experiment. 
Mrs.  Gayland  had  never  seen  her  dark  eye  so  un- 
pleasantly piercing.  The  woman  was  not  rebelling  at 
overwork.  Mrs.  Branstane  had  deliberately  chosen 
to  make  this  an  epic  moment  in  the  life  of  her  mistress. 

"Well,  then,"  Mrs.  Gayland  panted,  discomfited,  to 


44  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

be  thrown  so  mercilessly,  for  once,  upon  her  own  re- 
sources. "I  —  I  guess  it  would  be  all  right  to  serve 
now.     But  what  do  you  really  think,  Nellie?" 

"Good  heavens!     Serve  and  be  done  with  it!" 

"Do  you  really — ?" 

''Serve,  I  say,  and  be  done  with  it!" 

"Why-y,  Nellie!  What  is  the  matter,  that  you 
should  treat  me  so?  i  've  never  seen  you  like  this 
before." 

So  spoke  twelve  years  of  Mrs.  Gayland's  steady 
reliance  upon  a  readier  wit  than  her  own,  which  had 
always  been  dependable  upon  just  such  occasions  as 
this,  demanding  decision.  Now  an  awkward  and  un- 
called-for rebellion  in  this  useful  and  regular  depend- 
ent!    She  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"Oh,  go  back  to  your  tomfoolery!"  Mrs,  Branstane 
snapped  her  jaw,  and  turned  away. 

Moving  unsteadily  back  into  her  gay  crowd  again, 
bewildered,  her  lip  quivering,  Mrs.  Gayland  looked 
over  the  ball-room,  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  delivered 
herself  of  this  conclusive  judgment  on  the  world: 

"E-eh,"  she  moaned,  "there  's  always  sump-thing!" 

So  Rossacre's  social  sovereign  reeled  at  the  concus- 
sion of  her  housekeeper's  unaccountable  displeasure. 
Her  whole  world  was  rocked  in  a  revolution.  Refresh- 
ments of  the  most  refined  description  were  served,  it  is 
true.  But  in  Mrs.  Gayland's  mind  were  thoughts  of 
a  morrow.  She  had  tasted  of  a  new  power;  a  new 
antagonism  had  arisen  to  cloud  her  home.  It  might 
be  that  life  itself  would  be  different.  In  any  case 
there  would  have  to  be  a  reckoning  with  Nellie,  per- 
haps painful;  and  she  shrank  from  that.  And  for 
the  remainder  of  the  night  the  dancers  swam  across 
Mrs.  Gayland's  blurred  vision  unseen. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  45 

At  length  the  clocks  mercifully  tolled  the  hour  of 
three.  "Three  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,"  as  one  of  the 
professional  wits  was  pleased  to  put  it.  Even  so 
splendid  a  function  was  forced  to  its  close  —  merci- 
fully so,  for  one  person.  Still  gaily  Judge  Gayland 
and  his  daughter  bade  "Good  morning"  to  their 
guests.  Sonorously  Jonathan  the  coachman  ordered 
up  their  cars  and  carriages.  The  great,  the  supreme 
event  of  the  season  in  Rossacre  was  ended. 

And  Mrs.  Gayland  trudged  off  to  a  troubled  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SO  did  her  husband  the  Judge  trundle  ofT  to  a 
troubled  sleep. 
First  he  bade  his  wife  Good  night,  and  then 
on  pretense  of  seeing  in  person  to  the  locking  of  the 
house,  he  deliberately  sought  an  interview  with  his 
superior  servant,  though  it  cost  him  a  fit  of  trembling 
and  a  bit  of  effort. 

They  met  in  the  dining-room. 

"See  here,  Nellie!"  the  Judge  gasped,  when  he  had 
entered  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
"So  you  've  begun  on  the  wife!  I  overheard  what  you 
said  about  the  refreshments  —  and  the  way  you  said 
it!  I  've  been  expecting  this.  But  —  but,  see  here! 
Haven't  I  really  done  enough  for  you.^^     Eh?" 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  standing  at  the  great  round 
mahogany  table,  sorting  over  a  pile  of  soiled  napery 
destined  for  the  laundry.  At  his  question  her  hands 
halted  at  her  work,  and  only  her  eyes  —  two  deeply 
set  carbuncles  —  moved  as  they  searched  his  face, 
with  a  faint  expression  of  amusement. 

"None  of  your  sneers,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  do 
as  I  please." 

"You've  always  done  as  you  pleased,  with  me!" 
the  Judge  attempted  a  bit  of  pleasantry.  He  even 
stepped  nearer.  "That's  the  devil  about  you!"  He 
came  nearer  still,  still  laughing,  though  not  now 
successfully. 

The  laughter  flickered  out  altogether,  and  his  eyes 
widened  in  wonder,  as  Mrs.  Branstane  retreated  a  step 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  47 

or  two  round  the  table.  When  he  reached  for  her 
hand  she  snatched  it  away. 

"What  —  what's  the  matter?"  he  said. 

"I've  finished  with  you,"  she  answered. 

Puzzled,  the  Judge  backed  away,  till  he  was  stopped 
by  the  wall  that  served  as  a  prop  to  his  shaking  legs. 
"You're  right!"  he  laughed,  now  in  another  humour. 
"You've  certainly  finished  with  me!     Or  nearly." 

Something  in  Mrs.  Branstane's  mien  put  a  stop  to 
that  sort  of  laughter  as  well. 

"Oh,  of  course  I  didn't  mean  that,  Nellie,"  he  said 
hurriedly.  "Even  if  it's  true,  what  of  it!  What  of 
it!"  he  repeated,  to  emphasize  his  magnanimity.  "But 
surely  — "  He  stepped  forward  again  —  though  again 
Mrs.  Branstane  retreated.  "Surely  — "  He  held  out 
his  hand  in  appeal.  "Surely  you  —  you  won't  trouble 
the  wife?  Leave  things  as  they  were,  between  you 
and  me?" 

"That's  for  me  to  decide." 

"But  what's  the  good  of  it,  Nellie!"  Once  more 
the  Judge  came  nearer.  This  time  Mrs.  Branstane 
did  not  retreat.  In  consequence  the  Judge  found  him- 
self not  encouraged  but  gazing  instead  straight  into 
her  unflinching  eyes.  A  moment  he  faced  her  —  and 
then  tried  still  another  tack.  "By  George,  but  the 
refreshments  ivere  good,  Nellie!" 

She  neither  smiled,  softened,  nor  answered. 

"And  you  yourself,  you  looked  bully!" 

"So?  .  .  .  How  many  of  your  guests  noticed  that?" 

The  Judge  fell  back.  "So!"  he  said,  so  much  more 
occupied  with  comprehension  than  with  speech  that 
he  barely  whispered  the  words,  "So  that's  it,  is 
it?" 

"That's  it,"  said   Mrs.  Branstane,   calmly  turning 


48  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

again  to  the  sorting  of  her  napkins.  A  moment  or 
two  he  watched  her,  and  then  she  finished,  "Good 
night." 

"Oh,  see  here,  Nellie!"  With  a  quick  motion  the 
Judge  caught  one  of  her  hands.  "Now,  see  here  I 
You  're  a  wonder.  You  know  I  think  that,  don't  you? 
There  's  nobody  in  the  whole  town  can  beat  you  for 
brains.  I  've  always  said  that.  Time  and  again.  You 
know  that." 

"  And  that 's  where  it  all  ends.  .  .  .  Where  it  always 
has  ended."  Mrs.  Branstane  withdrew  her  hand  and 
went  on  with  the  napkins. 

"You  mean  — ?'' 

Mrs.  Branstane,  without  looking  up,  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"You  mean,  I  —     Haven't  I  done  enough,  Nellie?" 

The  faintest  satiric  smile  played  about  her  lips. 

"But,  great  God,  what  more  can  I  do!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  halted  her  work  at  the  very  pose  in 
which  her  thought,  whatever  it  was,  arrested  her.  It 
wasn't  necessary  for  her  to  speak;  her  eyes  attended 
to  that.  What  they  conveyed  the  Judge  answered  in  a 
startled  remark, 

"What  —  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

Slowly  Mrs.  Branstane's  gaze  gathered  into  a  smile, 
and  then  suddenly  she  fell  again  upon  the  napkins. 
"Good  night,"  she  repeated,  with  a  quiet  laugh. 

"But  what  do  you  mean  to  do!" 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Now  —  see  —  here,  Nellie  — " 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  fairly  frightened  the  Judge 
with  the  blaze  of  wrath  that  stopped  his  accustomed 
flattery.  Already  her  eyes  had  finished  him,  but  once 
more,  she  said,  and  very  finally,  "Good  night." 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  49 

"Good  night,"  he  answered,  submissively,  and  went 
to  bed. 

But  not  to  sleep. 

Not  to  sleep  until  a  last  thought  came  to  relieve 
and  solace  him. 

"Well,  anyway,"  the  Judge  chuckled  as  the  thought 
came  to  him,  "Annabel  is  too  clever  for  any  Nellie. 
She's  safe,  thank  her  lucky  stars!" 


CHAPTER   VIII 

ABOUT  the  eleventh  hour  on  the  morning  after 
the  ball,  Mrs.  Branstane  might  have  been  dis- 
covered on  her  knees  in  the  dining-room.  And 
scarcely  in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  Notwithstanding 
the  recent  cataclysm  of  the  routine  housecleaning, 
Mrs.  Branstane  was  polishing  the  feet  of  the  table  — 
whose  heavily  scarred  condition  will  be  instantly  clear 
to  the  sapient. 

On  that  table  the  evening  before  the  Gayland  punch- 
bowl had  offered  its  spirited  contribution  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  ball. 

The  little  episode  touching  the  refreshments  has  not 
fled  Mrs.  Branstane's  memory,  and  that  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane is  still  in  a  state  of  mind  is  made  plain  in  the 
exaggerated  vigour  of  her  strokes  as  she  toils  at  her 
polishing. 

To  Mrs.  Branstane  the  legs  of  that  table  typified 
all  the  wrongs  and  indignities  of  her  existence.  Her 
hand  trembled  from  the  intensity  of  her  anger  as  she 
worked.  There  had  to  be  mere  slaves,  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane granted  —  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  serve  at  table, 
and  drive  the  motors.  Fallible  creatures,  all  of  them. 
But  the  idea  of  such  an  order  of  things  as  permitted 
silly  fools  like  the  guests  of  last  night  to  simper  and 
dance,  while  their  superiors,  like  Mrs.  Branstane, 
drudged  for  their  private  enjoyment!  Mrs.  Branstane 
yearned  at  that  moment  for  some  of  them  to  be  there 
to  address  on  the  subject!  .  .  . 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  51 

Into  the  jaws  of  this  promising  mood  calmly  walked 
Miss  Annabel  Lee,  the  second  member  of  the  Gayland 
family  to  take  up  anew  the  duties  of  life  that  morning. 

Mrs.  Branstane's  jaw  tightened  even  more  rigidly 
as  she  heard  the  daughter  descending  the  stair,  the  tap 
of  her  slippers  accenting  the  rhythm  in  her  fortissimo 
delivery  of  a  frivolous,  and  therefore  popular,  song  of 
the  day.  By  sound  Miss  Annabel  Lee  was  in  a  highly 
blithe  and  satisfactory  humour.  Yet  when,  a  second 
or  two  later,  she  appeared  in  the  dining-room  door- 
way in  quest  of  a  bite  to  eat,  clad  in  some  airy  blue 
morning  thing,  little  more  than  a  dazzling  blonde 
head  perched  at  the  apex  of  a  blue  flame,  nothing 
could  have  deepened  the  dolour  of  her  mien  or  the 
solemnity  of  her  voice. 

"Brannie,"  Miss  Annabel  asked,  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  inquires  at  what  hour  she  is  to  be  hanged; 
"where  does  Mrs.  Father  O'Brien  live.*^  .  .  .  But 
Brannie!"  Miss  Annabel's  tone  shifted  abruptly  from 
extreme  sadness  to  extreme  severity,  such  was  the 
shock  of  finding  someone  in  the  household  at  work. 
"What  are  you  doing  there!  Why  don't  you  have 
Berkeley  do  that?  I  declare,  you  are  always  treat- 
ing yourself  to  the  luxury  of  needless  exertion.  It 's 
beautiful,  such  devotion.  You  treat  our  things  as  if 
they  were  your  own.  But  surely"  —  Miss  Annabel 
yawned  —  "at  your  age  a  woman  is  entitled  to  take 
things  easy." 

For  answer  Mrs.  Branstane  flashed  upon  Annabel  a 
glance  of  X-ray  penetration.  Such  was  the  quench- 
less spirit  of  mischief  in  the  girl,  it  was  never  easy  to 
distinguish,  with  even  the  most  searching  study, 
whether  she  really  intended  the  sting  that  might  some- 
times, if  one  were  so  disposed,  be  felt  in  her  speeches. 


52  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Whatever  Mrs.  Branstane  distinguished  in  Annabel's 
remark,  she  might  have  distinguished  in  Annabel's 
person  about  five  and  a  half  feet  of  beautiful  girl  — 
lovely  even  in  her  fatigue  and  her  deshabille.  Her 
two  slender  arms  stole  out  of  the  wide  sleeves  of  her 
morning  wrap,  and  disappeared  behind  her,  where 
her  hands  were  clasped.  The  masses  of  her  waving 
light  hair,  tossed  rather  high  that  morning,  fell  away 
and  exposed  rather  more  than  usual  of  her  forehead. 
Of  an  identical  shade  of  deep  grey,  no  two  pairs  of  eyes 
could  have  differed  more  than  those  of  Annabel  and 
Sylvia.  Sylvia's  eyes  were  always  seeing  something 
to  admire;  Annabel's  were  always  seeing  something 
to  do.  Annabel's  mouth  this  morning  was  drawn 
down  at  its  corners  into  a  doleful  droop  that  was 
absurdly  difficult  for  its  normally  saucy  curves.  Her 
whole  demeanour  conveyed  a  sovereign  severity.  None 
but  superlative  beauty  may  safely  assume  such  a 
supremely  imperious  air  in  this  land  of  the  free. 

Not  that  any  man  would  have  resented  it.  But 
certainly  Mrs.  Branstane  was  in  no  mood  to  indulge 
the  like. 

She  resented  it  in  a  silence  that  Miss  Gayland  her- 
self felt  obliged  to  terminate. 

"Brannie,"  she  burst  forth,  "you  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  such  industry !  It 's  perfectly  heartless  of 
you  to  set  us  such  an  example!" 

And  again  there  was  silence. 

Nothing  daunted.  Miss  Gayland  continued,  —  "I 
asked  you,  Brannie  —  perhaps  you  will  remember"  — 
she  underlined  the  sarcasm  with  a  languorous  droop 
into  one  of  the  carved  Jacobean  chairs,  and  with  a 
piteously  bored  glance  toward  the  coffered  ceiling  — • 
"I  asked  you  where  Mrs.  Father  O'Brien  lives.     Be- 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  53 

cause"  — she  yawned  again  —  "I  am  going  to  con- 
sult Mrs.  Father  O'Brien,  on  some  ve-ery  important 
business." 

"I  suppose,"  Mrs.  Branstane  snapped,  the  smooth- 
ness of  her  utterance  broken  by  combined  anger  and 
industry,  "I  suppose  you're  going  into  a  convent  — 
again?     That's  it,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it  'is  it'!  Is  Mrs.  Father  O'Brien 
a  nice  person,  Brannie?  Or  perhaps  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Wiggin  could  advise  me.  I  know  he  would  if  he  could! " 
Miss  Gayland  laughed.  Even  Mrs.  Branstane  was 
forced  to  an  unwilling  chuckle  at  that.  "Oh,  you 
needn't  laugh,  Brannie,"  Miss  Gayland  rebuked  her. 
"Because  I  'm  going  to  do  it." 

Being  accustomed  to  Annabel's  ingenious  expressions 
of  boredom,  Mrs.  Branstane  was  content  to  reply  with 
a  disdainful  glance. 

Suddenly  Miss  Gayland  brightened.  "No!  I  think 
I  '11  be  a  nurse!  .  .  .  Funny  I  never  thought  of  that 
before.  ...  At  any  rate  I  'm  not  going  to  college. 
I  've  had  schooling  enough.  It 's  time  I  did  something 
serious.  Father  can  argue  himself  black  in  the  face, 
for  all  the  good  it  will  do  him." 

"So!  .  .  .  Going  to  uplift  the  heathen  again,  are 
you?  .  .  .  Going  to  care  for  the  downtrodden?" 

"Why,  Bran-nie!  I  declare,  I  don't  care  to  hear 
you  speak  in  that  sarcastic  manner.  You  even  sneered 
at  Mrs.  Father  O'Brien.  You  've  always  laughed 
whenever  I  've  planned  to  do  something  for  others. 
What  has  made  you  so  cynical?  ...  At  any  rate  I 
don't  see  where  you  can  have  acquired  the  funny  little 
spleen  you  've  shown  us  of  late.  You  've  got  it  with 
you  to-day  again,  I  see.  Just  to  keep  up  with  you, 
I  '11  have  to  acquire  a  little  of  my  own.     I  've  always 


54  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

wondered,  anyway,  Brannie"  —  Annabel  laughed,  for 
such  was  her  wicked  intention — -"who  bequeathed 
you  that  everlasting,  ever-faithful  old  green  dress 
you  've  affected  for  the  last  two  years.  And,  oh,  that 
reminds  me,  Brannie!  When  are  you  going  to  tell  me 
all  about  that  wonderful  past  of  yours,  that  I  've 
heard  hinted  ever  since  I  've  known  you?  Come  on, 
now!"  Miss  Gayland  leaned  forward  in  her  chair, 
rather  cheered  at  the  prospect  of  a  bit  of  amusement. 
"Isn't  it  about  time  we  heard  all  about  the  wonderful 
things  you  have  done?  .  .  .  'Eh'"  she  quoted,  as  an 
after-thought. 

It  is  a  highly  remarkable  trait  in  women,  how,  on 
suspecting  the  presence  of  a  temporary  buzz-saw  in 
the  mood  of  a  fellow-being,  they  will  carefully  feel 
about  till  they  have  found  it. 

Quickly,  angrily,  Mrs.  Branstane  glanced  up  from 
her  work.  "You'll  hear  about  that  all  in  good  time. 
But  I'll  tell  you  right  now  where  the  —  the  'spleen' 
comes  from,  if  you're  so  anxious  to  know!"  Mrs. 
Branstane's  voice  trembled,  whether  from  anger  or 
self-pity,  who  knows.  Perhaps  it  was  both.  "It  comes 
from  doing  something  'for  others' — and  all  my  life 
long.  And  getting  never  a  word  of  thanks,  nor  a  real 
dollar  of  pay,  nor  a  kind  deed,  in  return  for  it  all. 
That's  where  it  comes  from!" 

"Oh!  .  .  .  So  interesting!" 

The  missionary  Miss  Gayland  had  become  a  sudden 
statue  to  Scorn.  The  heathen  were  to  be  assisted, 
indeed,  even  liberally;  but  they  needn't  grow  aggres- 
sive and  overset  the  order  of  society.  The  statue 
tapped  a  neat  small  and  pointed  foot  on  the  polished 
floor  —  just  off  the  edge  of  a  great  Oriental  rug,  where 
the  noise  on  the  wood  was  most  satisfying,   or  the 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  55 

reverse,  according  as  how  you  heard  it.  Through  the 
open  windows  came  an  answering  tattoo  from  the 
Claversons',  where  there  was  beating  of  a  rug.  From 
the  Avenue  in  front  drifted  a  faint  rattle  of  traffic, 
and,  from  somewhere,  the  far-off  melancholy  whine  of 
a  hand-organ.  In  the  room  itself  was  silence,  long- 
drawn,  and  laden  with  dolour. 

"But  oh,  Brannie!"  Miss  Annabel  soon  and  sud- 
denly burst  forth  again,  at  another  turn  of  the  kaleido- 
scope character  of  girlish  moods.  "Didn't  you  think 
that  everybody  looked  —  oh  — just  ripping  last  night! 
Every-hodyV 

"I  —  I  expect  they  did,  my  girl.  I  must  say  I  — 
I  saw  very  little  of  'everybody'!" 

"And  —  and  didn't  Julia  Barlow  loom  up  splen- 
didly! But  that  freaky  Isabel  Warren  in  pale  blue  — 
forty,  if  she's  a  day!  Did  you  only  see  her?  She 
reminds  me  of  a  giraffe.  She  never  fails  to  get  herself 
up  like  a  fright,  and  quote  Fogazzaro,  or  somebody 
you  've  never  heard  of.  I  suppose  she  spells  her  name 
Isabelle!  But  wasn't  Sherry  Brookes  so  deliciously 
funny  and  silly!  And  —  and  Senator  Banks  was  so  — 
so  —  oh,  I  don't  know  what." 

"Haven't  I  told  you,"  Mrs.  Branstane  snapped, 
"that  I  saw  nothing  of  your  fine  doings!" 

"0-oh!  ...  Is  that  all!  I'm  so  relieved  that  you 
think  so  highly  of  —  of  our  'fine  doings'! "  And  Anna- 
bel laughed,  at  the  characteristic  reaction  of  this 
simple  creature  to  the  elegant  occurrence  of  the  even- 
ing before. 

"Well,  I  don't  think,  my  dear  girl,  that  there  's  any 
criticism  coming  to  me  —  about  green  dresses,  anyway 
—  from  a  young  lady  who  shows  herself  downstairs 
in  the  rig  you've  got  on  this  morning!" 


56  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Why,  Brannie!  There  you  go  again!  What's  the 
matter  with  you?  .  .  .  0-oh  — "  Annabel  objected 
generally,  to  the  inanimate  things  about  her,  since 
they  alone  promised  her  any  measure  of  sympathy  — 
"this  life  is  killing  me.  Father  won't  build  me  an 
asylum.  He  won't  even  give  me  a  new  greenhouse. 
He  won't  let  me  be  a  nurse,  or  a  social  reformer,  or 
anything.  I  haven't  a  single  interest  in  life.  Not  one. 
If  only  something  would  condescend  to  happen  in  this 
howling  desert!  If  only  some  wild  romance  would  en- 
gulf me  —  something  absolutely  demoniac !  Wouldn't 
it,"  she  moaned,  for  such  was  the  agony  of  her  bore- 
dom, "wouldn't  it  be  daisy  to  be  a  cannibal  queen! 
And  have  everybody  bowing  the  knee  to  you!  And 
slaves  waving  fans  over  you!  And  all  the  princes 
fighting  for  your  hand,  and  reciting  poetry,  and  — 
and  all  that!"  Her  fancy  failed  her,  — and  then  re- 
vived again.  "And  they'd  behave  just  precisely  to 
your  mood,  or  you  'd  order  their  heads  chopped  off. 
Or  you  'd  have  them  eaten  by  the  public,  and  that 
would  make  you  so  popular!  There  wouldn't  be  any 
school  any  more,  and  no  French  composition.  Be- 
cause, you  know,  Brannie,  I  never  saw  anything  like 
—  like  Mr.  Penning  last  evening!  He  behaved  out- 
rageously. Never  came  near  me  the  whole  time  — 
except  for  five  little  dances!  And  even  then  he  was 
as  glum  as  —  0-oh — "  A  yawn.  "How  soon  will 
breakfast  be  ready,  Brannie.^  Have  you  tolled  the 
bell.3" 

"The  breakfast  bell  rang  four  hours  ago,  thank 
you!" 

"Then  I  wasn't  much  of  a  breakfast  belle  this  morn- 
ing, was  I?" 

Thoughtfully  analyzed,  you  observe,  Miss  Annabel's 


THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  57 

craving  to  be  a  cannibal  queen  is  easily  translated 
into  desire  to  hear  speech  of  a  certain  male  inhabitant 
of  Rossacre,  and  go  on  hearing  speech  of  him  till  Miss 
Annabel  is  saturated  with  the  subject,  and  closes  the 
discourse  in  a  very  grand  fanner,  when  she  has  had 
quite  enough  of  it. 

The  one  slight  drawback  is  that  Mrs.  Branstane 
declines  to  be  a  party  to  any  such  arrangement. 

It  may  be,  of  course,  that  Annabel  is  a  little  too 
vastly  absorbed  in  her  own  concerns,  but  that  is  only 
because  she  has  never  heard  discussion  of  very  much 
else. 

"Seems  to  me,  Brannie,"  her  babble  runs  along, 
"seems  to  me  you  are  frigidly  unfeeling  this  morning. 
You  don't  commiserate  me  one  bit.  Sometimes, 
Brannie,  I  don't  quite  know  what  to  make  of  you." 

" '  Brannie ' ! "  Mrs.  Branstane  looked  up  severely.  It 
takes  one  arch-egoist  to  discover  another.  "Fine  mis- 
sionary you  'd  make!  You  never  think  of  anybody  but 
yourself.  And  I  want  you  to  understand  that  from 
this  time  on  I  don't  intend  to  be  called  'Brannie,'  by 
you  or  anyone  else." 

"0-oh!  Perhaps  'Araminta'  would  suit  you  better. 
At  any  rate,  whoever  you  are,  you  're  more  out  of 
sorts  than  ever  —  if  that  is  possible,  Brannie.  Ara- 
minta, I  beg  your  pardon!  Allow  me  to  say  that  per- 
sons whose  hold  of  a  comfortable  situation  depends 
upon  their  filling  it  nicely  would  do  well  to  be  discreet." 

"My-y  goodness!"  Mrs.  Branstane  straightened  up 
on  her  knees,  rose  majestically  to  her  feet,  and  flung 
down  her  polishing  cloth  on  the  top  of  the  table. 
The  buzz-saw  was  nearer  to  being  found.  "A  person 
can  work  their  hands  off,  'for  others,'  and  get  treated 
like  a  slave.     My  dear  girl  — " 


58  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Brannie!  What  are  you  saying!  This  is  becoming 
serious.     What  ails  you?" 

'"What  ails  me'?  There  it  is !  You  treat  me  as  if 
—  well,  as  if  I  was  some  animal.  And  you  've  no  call 
to  talk  to  me  like  that.  Calling  me  '  Brannie,'  and  all 
that.     I  've  stood  it  long  enough." 

In  the  kindest  tolerance  Annabel  beamed  down  upon 
her.  "Woman,  you  are  perfectly  absurd.  If  you 
object  to  that,  why  didn't  you  say  so  long  ago  I  In- 
stead of  nursing  it  in  your  heart.  I  like  people  to  be 
outright  with  everything." 

A  lofty  moral  eminence,  surely;  but,  sad  to  say, 
Annabel  was  not  strong  enough  to  hold  it  long.  Some- 
thing in  her  that  was  young  and  was  Annabel  urged 
her  to  add,  still  more  loftily,  "Besides,  it 's  nothing  to 
me.  If  you  dislike  'Brannie,'  we'll  make  it  Araminta 
in  earnest,  then."     And  she  laughed. 

"There  it  is!  That's  how  I'm  repaid  for  all  I've 
done  for  you,"  Mrs.  Branstane  fairly  gasped,  in  the 
heat  of  her  indignation.  "Haven't  I  —  well,  fairly 
slaved  for  you,  for  all  of  you,  as  nobody  else  would, 
all  my  life  long?     Haven't  I  — " 

Annabel  interrupted  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  laughter. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Branstane  nearly  shouted,  in  order  to 
be  heard  above  it,  "who  are  you,  anyway,  that  you 
can  scold  me  as  if  I  was  some  dumb  brute!  Here  I 
am,  put  out  of  my  regular  work  by  your  carryings-on 
into  the  night;  and  you  can  come  here  and  nag  at  me 
into  the  bargain!" 

After  all  this  unromantic  morning  was  furnishing  a 
bit  of  amusement,  and  Annabel  laughed  on.  "I  'm  so 
sorry  that  our  'carryings-on'  are  not  to  your  taste! 
If  you  spoke  to  father  about  it,  perhaps  you  might 
persuade  him  to  mend  the  awful  error  of  his  ways." 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  59 

"He'd  just  better  mend  the  error  of  his  ways!" 
Mrs.  Branstane  retorted,  with  more  of  her  eternal 
sententiousness.  "All  right,  my  girl,  laugh  on.  All 
the  same,  when  there  's  anything  to  be  done,  you,  and 
your  father  and  your  mother  too,  can  always  run  to 
me  for  it,  it  seems.  It 's  Nellie  this,  and  Nellie  that, 
till  I  'm  sick  and  tired  of  it  all,  that's  what  I  am!" 

More  merrily  than  ever  laughed  Annabel.  Here,  in 
this  preposterous  servitor,  was,  happily,  a  new  source 
of  entertainment.  "But,  my  dear  Brannie,  that  of 
course  isn't  what  you  're  paid  good  money  to  do,  is  it! 
Or  am  I  mistaken.^  You  and  Berkeley  are  too  amus- 
ing. You  've  both  come  to  think  that  you  own  this 
place.  I  suppose,  one  of  these  days,  you  '11  be  ordering 
us  out,  won't  you?" 

Redder  than  ever  flowed  the  blood  through  Mrs. 
Branstone's  cheeks,  and  at  this  new  charge  she  fairly 
leaped.  Always  there  were  recurring  these  shocks  to 
her  sense  of  proprietorship  in  this  world  about  her. 
A  hot  answer  flew  to  her  lips.  "Well,  my  advice  to 
you  is  — "  But  the  sheer  volume  of  what  she  had 
to  say  balked  her  powers  of  speech  and  reduced  her  to 
silence,  and  she  flung  herself  down  upon  the  floor  again 
and  viciously  attacked  the  third  leg  of  the  table  with 
her  polishing  cloth. 

No  act,  no  word  of  hers  could  have  been  more  efi'ec- 
tive.  Where  a  hot  retort  would  only  have  moved  the 
tormenting  girl  to  be  yet  more  annoying,  this  effort 
of  self-control,  of  generous  submission,  quite  overcame 
the  truly  generous  Annabel. 

"Oh,  come!  This  is  silly.  It's  all  right,  Brannie," 
said  that  tolerant  and  benign  mistress,  running  to  the 
window,  but  not  without  a  forgiving  pat  to  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane as  she  passed  her.     "We  all  know  how  splendid 


60  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

and  faithful  you  have  been.  Don't  think  you  haven't 
been  appreciated  in  all  these  years.  Only  —  let  me 
tell  you,  so  we  '11  understand  each  other  better  in  the 
future  —  advice  is  not  becoming  in  you." 

In  answer  to  that  gentlest,  if  not  most  intelligent, 
admonition,  Mrs.  Branstane  leaped  once  more  to  her 
feet.     "In  me!"  she  said. 

Now  the  buzz-saw  had  been  definitely  discovered. 
The  storm  had  burst. 

"Me!     My  stars  above!" 

Where  to  begin  Mrs.  Branstane  scarcely  knew,  so 
much  she  had  upon  her  tongue.  In  the  tension  of  her 
feelings  it  was  difficult  for  her  even  to  draw  her 
breath.  "Elegant  missionary  you'd  make!  Always 
ranting  about  the  emptiness  of  your  own  life,  and 
never  once  thinking  that  others  may  be  more  un- 
happy! Look  at  me!  Do  you  suppose  I  enjoy  being 
nothing  but  a  servant?  You  have  your  dresses,  your 
parties,  everything  you  want.  You  do  anything  you 
like,  go  anywhere,  see  anyone  you  please.  Every- 
body has  to  do  something  for  you.  Who  does  any- 
thing for  me,  I  ask  you.^  What  can  I  even  do  for 
myself.*^  Answer  me  that.  And  you  fling  it  in  my 
face  that  I  'm  nothing  but  a  servant!" 

"Why  —  really  —  Brannie  — " 

"You  think  you  are  climbing  mighty  high,  don't 
you,  and  making  yourself  very  important,  treating  me 
like  a  servant.^  Don't  you?  You  never  stop  to  think 
that  even  I  may  happen  to  have  feelings  too,  and  that 
it  hurts  me  to  have  it  flung  in  my  face  all  the  time 
that  I'm  nothing — " 

"Oh,  Brannie!     Beally,  I  never  — " 

"Nothing  but  a  —  a  servant!  Oh,  nol  Do  you 
ever  happen  to  think   what   I   may   happen  to  feel, 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  61 

working  my  hands  and  knees  to  the  bone  here?  For 
money!  And  being  thought  a  servant!  D'y'ever 
consider  that?" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Brannie,  I  never  once  thought — " 
"Yes!  You  'never  once  thought'!  And  yet  you 
wonder  where  I  get  my  'funny  Httle  spleen  of  late'! 
The  wonder  is  that  I  've  held  in  as  long  as  I  have. 
Oh,  yes"  —  Mrs.  Branstane  held  up  a  staying  hand  — 
"I  know  what  you  want  to  say.  It  makes  you  open 
your  eyes,  don't  it,  your  sort,  when  somebody  shows 
you  for  the  first  time  in  your  life  that  even  servants 
have  feelings,  and  that  it  hurts  them  to  be  where  they 
are!  And  to  be  shown  where  they  are!  Then  you 
pity  them,  and  want  to  smooth  them  down.  You  'd 
feel  the  same  way  if  Etta  the  cook  came  in  here  and 
had  the  nerve  to  speak  up  as  I  have.  You  'd  feel 
sorry,  and  sweet,  till  you  came  to  realize  again  that 
servants  have  got  to  be  —  that  somebody 's  got  to 
do  the  work.  I  know  that  myself.  I  'm  not  com- 
plaining of  that.  And  servants  can't  do  our  work 
and  sit  in  the  parlour  with  us  at  the  same  time,  can 
they?  They  can't  be  in  our  parties  because  they 
can't  talk  nicely.  I  know  that  too.  That  doesn't 
touch  me.  But  did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  my  fine 
lady" — Mrs.  Branstane  walked  closer  to  Annabel  — 
"did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  tell  me  —  did  you  ever 
give  it  a  thought  —  that  perhaps  I  might  belong 
where  —  where  you  are  to-day?  Did  you?  I  say,  did 
you?" 

Mrs.  Branstane  paused,  quite  satisfied  with  the 
distinction  she  had  drawn  —  the  very  difficult  dis- 
tinction between  an  American  woman  and  an  Ameri- 
can mistress;  and  in  her  satisfaction  she  rested  her 
hands  upon  her  hips.     Moreover,  in  this  contest  be- 


62  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

tween  herself  and  Annabel  as  to  whose  life  trials 
were  the  important  topic  of  discussion,  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  conscious  of  having  won. 

"Oh,  Auntie  Bran!"  Annabel  was  all  blushes,  all 
confusion.     "Really,  I  never — " 

"My  dear  little  child!"  Mrs.  Branstane  now  beamed 
down  from  a  dizzy  height  of  moral  superiority.  "And 
what  a  child  you  are !  You  're  bright,  I  know ;  but 
there  are  a  good  many  things  in  this  world  yet  for 
you  to  learn.  Things  that  it  would  do  you  a  great 
deal  of  good  to  learn.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that 
this  style  of  work  doesn't  exactly  fit  me?  Am  I  not  fit 
for  something  a  good  deal  better?  It 's  plain  enough, 
Lord  knows!  And  yet  you've  never  noticed  it.  See, 
now,  how  little  you  really  think  about  others.  And 
did  you  ever  stop  to  think  what  could  have  brought 
me  down  to  this?     Did  you?" 

"Auntie,  I  sincerely  beg  your  pardon!"  Annabel's 
face  was  crimson  under  this  heavy  indictment. 

Ten  times  over  Mrs.  Branstane  had  scored  her  point 
with  the  generous  Annabel;  but  "Did  you?"  she 
pressed  on  —  with  the  same  instinct  that  in  men 
makes  great  lawyers,  great  orators,  or  great  bores. 
"Did  you  ever  once  think  what  I  might  have  been 
before  I  got  levelled  down  to  this  place?  I  say,  did 
you?" 

"Oh,  Auntie!"  Annabel  had  covered  her  burning 
face  with  her  hands. 

"And  yet  you  think  me  a  —  a  'servant'!"  Even 
in  quotation  marks  Mrs.  Branstane  hesitated  before 
the  objectionable  word.  "You  take  on  about  the 
emptiness  of  your  own  life.  Did  you  ever  really  no- 
tice mine?  Who  pays  me  any  attention?  What  com- 
pany do  I  have?     I  may  be  starving  for  company  — 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  63 

my  own  kind  of  company  —  your  sort  of  company. 
And  when  I  get  lonesome  —  so  lonesome  that  I  want 
to  die  —  and  try  to  creep  close  to  somebody  like  you 
—  why,  then  I  'm  'impudent,'  I  'm  'saucy,'  I  'm  full  of 
'spleen,'  I'm  a  —  a  'servant'!  What  do  I  have  to 
make  my  life  anything  but  —  well,  what  you  see  it 
now?  And  I  guess  you  'd  open  your  eyes  if  you  knew 
what  it  was  that  brought  me  down!" 

Ashamed,  in  any  case,  to  have  bandied  words  with 
the  woman,  Annabel  was  stirred  to  immediate  apology, 
but  that  Mrs.  Branstane  had  given  her  no  opening  for 
a  single  word  —  and  meanwhile  had  given  her  so 
thumping  much  additional  matter  for  apology  that  the 
girl  was  puzzled  to  know  where  on  earth  to  begin.  So 
it  was  that  Annabel  only  ran  and  clapped  her  arms 
about  Auntie  Bran's  neck,  and  fairly  hopped  up  and 
down  in  the  fervour  of  her  penitence. 

"Oh,  Auntie,  forgive  me,  forgive  me!"  cried  the 
generous  girl.  "I  never  saw  it  that  way  before.  I 
never  once  thought.  And  it  was  cruel  of  me!  And 
idiotic!  But  we  understand  each  other  now,  don't  we, 
Auntie!  And  you  forgive  me!  And  do  teach  me  to  be 
better  and  more  thoughtful.  Auntie!  You'll  teach 
me,  I  know.  And  well  you  may  teach  me!  Look  at 
those  flowers  you  've  arranged  on  the  table.  And  the 
pictures  you  've  hung.  This  whole  house  is  your  work. 
You  're  a  wonder!" 

So  the  excited  girl  ran  on.  For  she  was  young,  and 
was  ingenuous  still,  and  open  and  frank.  That  is  to 
say,  she  still  gave  way  senselessly  and  freely  to  the 
best  impulses  that  were  in  her.  She  still  knew  the 
world  of  utter  propriety  and  policy  so  little  that  she 
dared  to  acknowledge  her  faults,  and  published  them 
openly,    cried   them    aloud    at   the    top    of   her   lung 


64  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

power;  and  so  played  willingly  the  anvil  to  anybody's 
hammer.  And  so  Miss  Annabel  was  cordially  assisted 
to  play  the  anvil,  and  punish  and  scold  herself  to 
her  heart's  content.  And  neither  one  of  them  knew 
that  Judge  Gayland  had  stood  outside  the  curtained 
doorway  to  the  dining-room,  and  had  heard  every  word 
that  was  said. 

"E-eh,  yes,  my  dear  Annabel,"  Mrs.  Branstane  was 
saying,  fairly  drunk  now,  on  this  flow  of  apology  and 
pity  and  praise.  "You  can  run  on,  now,  can't  you, 
my  girl,  when  you  once  have  somebody  to  show 
you  how  really  blind  you  have  been.  But  I  know 
you  like  a  book.  What  will  you  do  to  make  my  life 
any  different  here?" 

"Why,  Auntie!     I  never  thought  — " 

"Yes,  you  never  thought  of  that,  either,  did  you! 
But  what  is  there  here  for  me?" 

"Oh,  I  '11  have  to  see  about  that." 

"Yes,  how!     Who  notices  me,  if  you  please!" 

"Oh,  I  mean  it.  Auntie.  I  heard  the  boys  last 
night  — " 

There  the  Judge,  sure  now  that  he  could  command 
himself,  put  his  head  through  the  curtain  and  sur- 
prised them  both,  and  frightened  the  younger  woman 
into  hiding  her  deshabille  in  a  corner  behind  the 
biggest  possible  chair. 

"Heigho,  my  daughter!"  he  called,  stepping  into  the 
room.  He  was  wearing  a  jaunty  morning  suit  of  grey; 
a  crimson  carnation  was  in  his  button-hole;  and  his 
hands  were  at  their  eternal  rubbing.  "Heigho! 
What!  It's  twelve  o'clock,  and  after,  and  you're  up 
already?  Well,  well!  Heigho,  Nellie!  And  have  you 
luncheon  ready,  Nellie?  Where  's  Ida?  Not  up  even 
yet?    Well,  well!     Why,  she's  worse  even  than  Anna- 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  65 

bel!  Annabel,  aren't  you  going  to  slip  upstairs  right 
away  and  rig  up  for  luncheon,  there  's  a  good  little 
girl?" 

For  a  moment  he  stood  peeping  and  laughing  at 
her,  and  then,  playfully  guarding  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  he  walked  over,  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket 
a  strip  of  the  well-known  green-engraved  paper,  and 
dangled  it  over  the  back  of  the  chair  that  sheltered 
Annabel.  "Poor,  timid  little  dear!"  he  laughed.  "I 
wonder  if  it  wouldn't  like  this  nice  juicy  wisp  of  hayi* 
Hey?     It  usually  does!" 

"Oh,  yes,  Judge!  And  what  do  you  think!  She's 
going  into  a  convent  again,"  Mrs.  Branstane  inter- 
posed, never  a  comfortable  witness  to  this  constant 
court  which  the  Judge  paid  to  one  who  persisted  in 
being  the  important  personage  in  the  household. 

"No!  Now  is  she!  Why,  Sister  Agatha,  you  can't 
mean  it!"  "Sister  Agatha"  the  Judge  always  termed 
his  daughter  at  these  seasons.  "Now  are  you  going 
into  a  convent  —  again!"  he  laughed  on.  "Well,  well! 
But  do  have  luncheon  with  us  first,  ere  you  forsake 
this  wicked  world  for  ever,  there  's  a  dear.  And  now, 
seriously,  little  girl,  do  run  up  and  put  on  something 
that  will  please  father.     Now,  run  along." 

And  with  her  habitual  "A-all  right!"  Miss  Annabel 
dodged  swiftly  past  him,  slapping  Mrs.  Branstane 
playfully  as  she  ran;  and  in  a  minute  more  she  was 
pattering  up  the  broad  stair. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHEN  Annabel  was  at  last  well  out  of  hearing 
Judge  Gayland  stepped  close  to  his  house- 
keeper.    "My  God!"  he  said. 

He  was  pale,  and  he  shook  with  anger,  and  perhaps 
with  other  emotions.     Fear,  among  them. 

"So  you  are  beginning  on  Annabel  next!  I  heard 
what  you  said  from  upstairs.    You  fairly  shouted  it." 

With  that  he  turned  away  toward  the  window,  and 
put  his  hands  to  his  face,  and  bowed  forward,  and 
sobbed. 

"My  poor  girlie,  my  poor  girlie!  I  might  have 
known  it  would  come!" 

He  turned  again.  "See  here!"  And  again  he 
walked  close  to  Mrs.  Branstane.  "See  here!  You've 
given  me  —  well,  I  shan't  say  anything  at  the  way  — 
at  what 's  passed  between  you  and  me.  But  there  's 
something  I  give  you  to  understand.  If  you  tackle  me 
on  the  side  of  my  daughter,  you  '11  find  me  dangerous. 
Do  you  get  that?" 

The  sudden  spirit  of  the  man  fairly  paralyzed  Mrs. 
Branstane.  For  a  moment  she  gazed  at  him  —  ad- 
mired him  —  till  the  Judge  spoke  on. 

"Yes,  ma'am!  I  warn  you  that  if  you  attack  my 
daughter  you  '11  find  me  dangerous!" 

At  that  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed.  The  familiar 
Judge  of  old  had  returned. 

"So?"  she  said.  "'Well,  well'!"  And  at  once  she 
began  to  bridle.  Of  all  the  rags  that  were  red  to  Mrs. 
Branstane,    the    very    reddest    was    "my    daughter." 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  67 

"So!  Your  daughter  is  to  insult  me  whenever  she 
pleases,  is  she?  And  I  'm  to  be  meek  and  take  it,  am 
I?  Hadn't  you  better  whisper  your  warnings  to  your 
elegant  daughter,  instead,  my  dear  Ira?" 

"My  daughter  shall  say  and  do  precisely  what  she 
pleases,  and  don't  you  forget  that!  Anything  she 
pleases!  Her  place  in  this  house  is  one  thing,  and 
yours  is  another.     Don't  forget  that,  either!" 

"There  it  is!  My-y  goodness!  Ho-ow  many  years, 
Ira  Gayland,  have  I  patiently,  patiently  taken  every- 
thing you  've  seen  fit  to  heap  upon  me!  Answer  me 
that!" 

"Ho-ow"  many  times  had  Judge  Gayland  heard  all 
that  before!  "O  my  conscience!"  he  groaned,  and 
gestured  his  impotence,  his  despair,  and  the  whole 
story  of  the  years  up  to  then. 

"'My  conscience,'  indeed!"  Mrs.  Branstane  caught 
him  up.  "To  think  of  what  I  've  been  through  on 
account  of  you!  To  think  how  you  've  kept  me  down 
—  and  when  there  was  no  need  of  it  whatever.  Why, 
only  last  night  even  the  young  boys  noticed  me. 
Raved  about  my  eyes,  my  hair." 

"Yes,  they  did!" 

"They  did  just  that.     Your  daughter  said  so." 

So  the  ancient  harangue  was  on  again. 

"And  I  warn  you,  my  elegant  Ira,  that  I  'm  tired  of 
taking  things  off  your  wife  and  your  elegant  daughter. 
I  know  now  where  I  stand.  It 's  silly  enough  I  've 
been  to  stand  it  as  long  as  I  have.  And  I  don't  guess 
they'd  feel  any  too  comfortable  if  — " 

"Oh,  here,  here,  Nellie!"  The  Judge  leaped  toward 
her.  "Do  let  the  girl  alone,  at  all  events.  I'll  give 
you  anything.  I  '11  give  you  everything.  I  '11  give 
you  a  thousand  dollars  — " 


68  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"There  it  is!  'A  thousand  dollars 'I  You  haven't 
got  it  to  give.  That 's  the  trouble.  Where  are  you 
ever  going  to  wind  up?  You  've  given  away  alto- 
gether too  many  thousands  of  dollars.  And  I  notice 
they've  not  been  given  to  me!  I  really  believe,  Ira 
Gayland,  you  've  been  spending  as  you  have  all  along 
just  on  purpose  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  due.  Out  of 
what  you  've  always  promised  me." 

And  so,  as  ever  he  had  been  before,  the  Judge  was 
beaten  down.  "Yes,  Nellie;  yes,  yes!  I  know,  I 
know!"  he  tried  to  stem  the  torrent. 

The  Judge  had  learned  his  lesson.  He  had  learned 
to  watch  for  the  pauses,  and  to  heave  into  them 
quick  solace  and  sympathy  and  flattery;  and  occa- 
sionally he  was  fortunate  enough  to  divert  Nellie's 
mind  altogether. 

"I  know,  Nellie,  I  know.  It  hasn't  been  a  happy 
life  for  you.  I  admit  it.  I  'm  sorry  —  you  know  I  'm 
sorry.  At  the  —  the  way  things  have  turned  out. 
There,  there!"  And  he  held  out  a  five-dollar  bill, 
which  she  took;   and  went  on  with  his  chafl"er. 

"There!  And  now  you're  going  down  town  and 
buy  that  pretty  lace  collar  you  've  wanted  so  long, 
aren't  you?" 

And  wouldn't  Nellie  get  him  his  sherry  right  away? 
Wouldn't  Nellie  fix  him  his  Spanish  fried  eggs  for  his 
luncheon,  as  only  she  alone  knew  how  to  prepare 
them  —  better  even  than  the  chef  at  the  Club? 
Wouldn't  she  run  upstairs  and  put  on  that  adorable 
new  dress  that  he  thought  so  chic?  And  so,  at  last, 
the  Judge  was  enabled  to  beat  his  characteristic  re- 
treat, "to  run  up  and  change  his  scarf  at  once,  so  as 
not  to  spoil  Nellie's  usual  confection  of  a  meal." 

Judge  Gayland  had  a  theory  that  a  difficulty,  in 


THE  END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  69 

order  to  proceed,  must  have  a  victim  to  work  upon, 
and  that  if  the  victim  cleverly  keeps  out  of  the  way; 
why,  the  difficulty  is  at  least  kept  at  a  standstill. 
And  in  a  moment  his  feet  too  were  busy  on  the  stair 
—  quickened  in  the  relief  of  escape. 

So  Judge  Gayland  dwelt  day  after  day  upon  a 
powder  magazine,  hoping  eternally  that  the  explo- 
sion might  never  occur. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  powder  magazine  was,  of  course,  fashioned 
out  of  the  Judge's  own  character.  And  for 
such  a  character  the  world  is  always  lighting 
matches  —  for  the  most  part  innocently.  But  clever 
men,  designing  men,  were  not  long  in  learning  they 
could,  with  impunity,  take  advantage  of  poor  Gayland. 
The  man  in  Senator  Banks  was  above  all  that,  but 
the  politician  in  the  Senator  was  not  so  inconvenienced 
by  scruples.  Of  a  certain  Saturday,  not  long  after 
the  great  Gayland  ball,  the  Senator  was  having  his 
bosom  friend  Penning  to  luncheon  at  his  house,  pre- 
paratory to  a  round  of  golf  at  The  Country  Club. 
In  itself  this  was  a  circumstance  highly  suspicious. 
Ordinarily  the  Senator  loathed  the  game  of  golf,  ex- 
cept in  the  early  morning,  when  no  one  was  about 
to  titter  at  his  breathy  drives.  Yet  here  he  was, 
about  to  brave  the  populous  gallery  of  a  Saturday 
afternoon.  Even  without  this  certain  guide.  Penning 
would  have  had  no  trouble  in  guessing  the  matter  that 
lay  on  the  Senator's  mind,  for  his  host  gabbled  like 
a  magpie  about  every  other  topic  under  the  sun.  Even 
after  the  meal,  when  he  was  alone  with  Penning  and 
all  need  of  concealment  was  gone,  the  Senator  pre- 
served the  same  air  of  gleeful  mystery  —  and  the 
same  propensity  to  talk  nonsense.  For  example,  as 
they  left  the  house  he  glanced  back  at  the  highly 
castellated  pile  and  demanded  of  Penning, 
"Isn't  it  a  beauty!" 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  71 

Which  it  was  not.  Though  it  is  due  to  the  Senator 
to  explain  that  he  was  proud  of  his  house  as  a  shrine 
of  politics  more  than  as  a  monument  to  architecture. 

Somehow  the  thing  had  acquired  the  sobriquet  of 
"The  Incubator,"  in  deference  to  the  dark  political 
plots  presumed  to  have  been  hatched  within  it.  To 
that  very  day  the  Senator  remembered  his  almost 
apoplectic  pleasure  when  a  Philadelphia  newspaper 
first  applied  the  nickname,  and  poured  editorial  venom 
over  that  den  of  iniquity. 

"Lord  love  you.  Penning,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
day  I've  expressly  ordered  for  us!"  he  chuckled  as 
they  took  seats  in  the  car  purring  quietly  at  the  curb 
in  front,  and  the  Senator  gave  a  destination  that 
made  his  driver  start. 

From  that  point  the  Senator,  if  anything,  increased 
his  conversational  output.  It  was  clear  that  he  was 
launched  upon  an  elaborate  masterpiece  of  tact  and 
persuasion. 

First  he  experimented  upon  Penning  with  a  dash 
of  the  facetious. 

"Didn't  I  have  the  devil's  own  time  to  find  you 
this  morning!"  He  imparted  a  distinct  and  knowing 
nudge  to  Penning's  ribs.  "No  answer  to  the  tele- 
phone. They  tell  me  it 's  next  to  impossible  to  find 
you  at  your  office  at  all  any  more.  And  I  've  also 
heard  the  reason."  Another  nudge.  "I  hear  there's 
a  house  on  the  Avenue  —  not  far  from  mine  —  brick 
—  but  with  a  sort  of  lodestone  front  —  eh,  Penning.^" 
The  third  nudge.  "There!  I  '11  lay  you  a  fiver  you 
haven't  heard  a  word  I  've  said  all  through  luncheon!" 

"Yes  — yes." 

"That  proves  it!  Look  where  your  eyes  are  now. 
The  ve-ry  idea!     Nice  old  innocent  Penning!    Always 


72  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

swore  he'd  never,  no,  never — "  There  the  little 
Senator  went  off  into  a  peal  designed  to  be  the  height 
of  merriment,  and  slapped  his  friend  with  such  power 
as  his  habitual  awe  of  the  man  would  permit  him. 

So  he  bravely  plunged  on  with  his  campaign  of 
laughing  and  chaffing  Penning  into  a  mood  receptive 
to  the  somewhat  explosive  subject  about  to  be 
broached. 

On  the  ride  to  the  club  he  talked  and  laughed  till 
the  crowds  along  the  way  stared  in  wonder.  He  chat- 
tered steadily  as  they  shifted  to  golfing  rig.  And  still 
he  talked  as  Penning  teed  up  for  the  first  hole. 

On  their  reaching  the  third  green  the  Senator  felt  it 
safe  to  begin  on  the  project  that  he  had  had  in  process 
of  incubation  —  a  perfect  specimen,  by  the  way,  of 
the  simple  art  of  politics  in  Rossacre. 

"Damn  it,  Penning!"  the  Senator  there  interrupted 
himself  to  say.  "I  do  wish  you  felt  like  talking 
to-day!" 

"H'm!     Why  not  give  me  a  chance?" 

"Yes,  I  know;  but,  young  feller,  you've  never  once 
been  altogether  outspoken  with  me." 

"But  I  often  say  'Damn'  in  your  presence  —  and 
quite  often  at  you." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  now  in  all  seriousness,  Penning, 
you  've  never  once  —  you  know  —  unbosomed  your- 
self. Except  once.  I  forgot.  Once,  when  you  did 
drop  a  remark  about  your  determination  to  'land 
somewhere,  sometime.'  I  've  always  remembered  that. 
It  startled  me.  It  was  such  an  admission  from  you. 
It  was  so  —  so  definite!" 

Penning  laughed  heartily,  as  well  he  might. 

The  truth  is  that  Penning  was  inwardly  roaring  at 
the  Senator's  heavy  exertions  in  tact,  against  his  own 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  73 

determination  to  baffle  them.  What  the  Senator 
meant  to  discuss,  he  knew  perfectly  well.  And  he 
intended  to  prevent  it. 

"Well,  well.  Banks!"  He  cleared  his  throat  elabo- 
rately, and  waggled  his  putter  seventeen  times  in  prac- 
tice for  a  putt.  "  Fact  is,  I  feel  like  talking  to-day.  Yes, 
really!"  He  tried  for  the  three-foot  putt,  and  missed 
it.  "Fact  is,  I  want  to  gabble.  To  somebody  I  can 
trust,  that  is." 

"That's  me!"  The  Senator  himself  prepared  for  a 
putt,  and  then  straightened  up  without  making  it. 
And  notwithstanding  that  they  were  holding  up  a 
long  line  of  Saturday  players,  oathful  at  the  delay, 
the  Senator  walked  close  to  Penning  and  whispered, 
"I  believe  in  my  soul.  Penning,  that  you  and  I  were 
going  to  speak  of  the  very  same  thing.  Eh?"  Another 
nudge.  "About  —  about  something  that  lies  ve-ry 
close  to  your  heart?" 

"Ye-s,"  Penning  parried.     "My  heart." 

"That's  it!  The  very  thing!  By  heaven.  Penning, 
I  'm  delighted.  I  've  always  wished  you  'd  open  up 
some  time,  and  tell  me  something  definite  about  your 
—  your  ambitions,  you  know.  Your  —  your  plans. 
Get  me?  I  've  never  felt  I  could  get  really  close  to 
you  until  then.  I  've  felt  —  I  've  been  handicapped  — 
It  would  be  so  much  more  comfortable  —  Damn  it, 
I  like  you!  I  want  you  to  get  on.  I  've  wanted  to  do 
my  little  part  to  help  you  on.  Being  an  older  man, 
and  through  the  mill,  so  to  say,  I  've  wanted  to  steer 
you  right.  Do  you  see?  I  could  have  done  so  much 
before  this,  if  only  you  had  — " 

"Fo-o-ore!"  came  the  stentorian  hint  from  some 
club  champion,  somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  first 
tee.     "What  the  devil  do  those  two  fools  mean  by 


74  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

holding  us  up!"  he  complained  to  his  opponent. 
"Who  are  they?" 

"Shut  up,  or  they  '11  hear  you!  That 's  Penning  and 
Banks.  You  can't  crowd  those  fellows  aside.  And  — 
I  —  guess  —  there  will  be  something  doing  in  the  little 
old  town  this  fall!  You  don't  see  that  pair  together 
for  nothing."  .  .  . 

"Lord,  Banks,"  Penning  is  saying,  "I  wish  I  had 
long  ago  'spoken  out,'  as  you  say.  I  might  have  saved 
myself  years  of  — " 

''Course  you  might! — " 

" — doubt  and  —  and  so  on.  But  it's  one  of  the 
blemishes  of  my  otherwise  sunny  and  saintly  dispo- 
sition.    I  stand  in  my  own  shadow." 

"You  do!     Now — " 

"Fact  is,  when  I  think  of  the  chances  I  think  I  — " 

"Oh,  don't  be  so  modest,  man!     Now  — " 

" —  might  have  had  —  chances  of  advancement, 
you  know  —  it  seems  miraculous  that  I  've  reached 
the  point  where  I  am  —  where  I  think  I  am  now," 

"Oh,  don't  you  bother  about  that.  You  've  reached 
your  'point'  all  right." 

"You  really  think  so?  Glad  to  hear  you  say  that, 
Banks!  By  the  way,  what  are  those  cranks  yelling 
for,  back  at  the  clubhouse?  Ah,  yes!  They  want  us 
to  move  on.     Hurry  up  and  putt  out.     Your  hole." 

A  cheer  went  up  from  the  waiting  line  as  the 
Senator  sank  a  four-inch  shot  and  Penning  replaced 
the  flag  —  for  the  Senator  would  have  no  caddies  by 
to  overhear  and  repeat. 

"Yes,"  Penning  said,  after  they  had  driven,  "I  give 
you  my  word,  Banks,  I  used  to  consider  myself  a 
hopeless  case." 

"Idiotic!" 


THE  END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  75 

"I  thought  I'd  never  succeed  — " 

"SUly!" 

" —  in  this  particular  way,  you  understand.  I've 
done  well  enough  in  the  law.  But  I  don't  mind  say- 
ing that  —  that  — " 

"Exactly!" 

" —  I've  had  other  ambitions,  too." 

"Precisely!  Just  it!"  The  Senator  was  succeeding. 
His  project  was  prospering.  And  he  fairly  danced  as 
he  walked  after  his  ball.     "Go  on,"  he  encouraged. 

"Yes,  I  don't  mind  saying,  Banks,  that  I  've  had 
my  eye  *  on  —  on  other  prizes.  Only  —  the  prizes 
never  seemed  to  come  my  way." 

"Oh!" — the  Senator  exulted  —  "you  just  let  me 
take  care  of  that!     Think  how  young  you  are!" 

"Thirty-four,  Banks.  Getting  along.  .  .  .  But  I 
will  say  that  of  late  I  have  seen  a  little  opening 
that  —  " 

There  Banks  clipped  Penning  a  resounding  thwack 
between  the  shoulders.  "You're  on!"  he  fairly  in- 
toned his  satisfaction. 

"You  don't  think  I'm  too  old?" 

"You're  too  young!  But  say  the  word,  and  the 
job  is  yours." 

"0-oh,  hur-ree  up!"  they  heard  from  the  rear,  and 
quickened  their  pace. 

"You  really  think—" 

"Say  the  word,  I  tell  you,  and  she's  yours!  Gay- 
land  can't  — " 

"Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  Gayland!" 

"I  was  only  going  to  say  that  he  was  much  older 
when  he  — " 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  that  Gayland  cuts  any  figure  in  it 
at  all.     He  —  " 


76  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"What!"  the  Senator  almost  yelled.  "You  think 
that?  Well,  well!  Penning,  allow  me  to  say,  you  've 
got  real  sense!  I  'm  proud  of  you.  I  'm  delighted  with 
the  way  you  take  to  my  idea.  I  've  had  it  in  mind  for 
you  all  along." 

"Idea  -?" 

"Yes.  To  be  frank  with  you,  I  was  afraid  you 
might  raise  a  row  over  Gayland.  More  of  your  fine 
scruples,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Gayland 's  no  saint,  I  know;    but  — " 

"I  should  say  he  is  not.  Not  entitled  to  any  con- 
sideration whatever!  Well!  Now!  Since  you  don't 
mind  about  Gayland,  the  thing  is  as  good  as  done." 

"Easy.^     Not  a  bit  of  it!" 

"Let  me  tell  you,  boy,  I  know  precisely  what  figure 
Gayland  cuts  in  this  district." 

"You've  asked  him  yourself?" 

"  Er  —  not  exactly.  The  —  the  last  expression  I 
had  from  him  was  that  he  didn't  think  he  'd  stand 
for  it." 

"Stand  for  it!  What  objection  can  he  have  for 
me?" 

Voice  from  a  distance  —  "0-oh,  get  off  the  course!" 

"Let's  pick  up,  and  wander  over  here  under  this 
tree";  Penning  ventured  to  recall  the  ethics  of  golf. 
"I  'd  like  to  keep  on  with  this  subject."  And  they  did 
as  he  suggested,  to  the  wonderment  of  the  passing 
players. 

"How  can  Gayland  object  to  you!  My  dear  boy, 
he  can't  do  it.  I  have  some  say  on  the  case,  I 
guess!" 

"You?    But,  Banks!     I  can't  let  you  interfere!" 

"You  leave  that  to  me.  We'll  proceed  in  spite  of 
him." 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  77 

"No,  I  've  got  to  do  the  whole  thing  myself." 

"Don't  care  who  does  it,  so  long  as  it 's  done.  I  '11 
have  the  satisfaction  of  landing  the  man  that  I  've 
always  wanted  to  land  there.  But  it 's  high  time  to 
be  planning  the  campaign,  my  boy.  You  can't  begin 
that  too  early." 

"I  —  I  have  accomplished,  I  think,  a  —  a  little 
something."     Penning  blushed. 

"You  don't  say  so!     Good!" 

The  Senator  edged  closer  to  his  friend,  whom  he 
had  feared  to  find  restive,  difficult,  overloaded  with 
scruple,  and  who  was  instead  so  gratifyingly  sensible. 
It  was  time  now  to  pass  on  to  the  practical  de- 
tails. 

"No,"  he  went  on  in  a  low  voice,  "I  don't  think 
Gayland  can  offer  a  particle  of  opposition.  You  've 
nothing  to  fear  from  him." 

"I  agree  with  you.  But,  Banks,  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  are  leaving  a  rather  important  personage  out  of  our 
calculations." 

"I  can't  think  who  it  can  be,  Penning." 

"Only  Miss  Gayland  herself!" 

"Miss  Gayland?  What  in  the  name  of  all  that's 
holy  has  she  got  to  do  with  it!" 

Penning's  amusement  was  no  longer  to  be  contained. 
"Do  with  it?  Nothing,  except  that  I  haven't  said  a 
word  to  her  about  it  yet!" 

"About  —  about  what?"  The  Senator's  mystifica- 
tion was  immense. 

"Oh,  about  the  thing  I  should  rather  naturally 
ask  her." 

The  Senator  sat  up  and  challenged,  "Will  you 
kindly  tell  me  what  that  girl  has  got  to  do  with  the 
Judgeship  of  this  county?" 


78  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Judgeship  of — Banks,  what  the  devil  are  you 
talking  about!" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about,  young  man!" 

There  Penning,  laughing  uproariously,  permitted 
Banks  to  discover  how  he  had  been  hooked  and  played 
on  the  line  of  Penning's  superior  subtlety. 

At  first  the  Senator  was  on  the  verge  of  tears  in  his 
anger  and  consternation.  "Well!"  he  gasped,  when 
he  was  calmed  to  the  point  of  words.  "I  wish  you 
luck  with  your  friend  Annabel.  But  what  I  want  to 
know  is,  Will  you  run  for  the  Judgeship  of  this 
county?" 

"Against  Gayland?  H'm!"  Penning  pretended  to 
ponder  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  he  isn't  going  to  run!"  the  Senator  hurried  to 
assist  him  to  a  conclusion. 

"I  understood  that  he  would." 

"He  told  me  he  wouldn't." 

"He  told  me  he  would." 

"Well,  if  he  doesn't!  —  you'll  —  you'll  run?"  the 
Senator  pleaded. 

"I  may  run,  if  he  doesn't." 

"But  —  but  supposing  worse  comes  to  worst,  and 
the  devil  does  run  —  you  won't  go  back  on  me?" 

Penning  screwed  up  his  eyes  into  a  shrewd  twinkle, 
and  turned  them  like   a  pair  of  drills   upon  Banks. 

"Tell  you  what,  my  friend,  it  would  influence  me  a 
good  deal  if  you  —  er  —  withdrew  your  objections  to 
Sherry  Brookes  in  your  house.  What  do  you  say? 
'Will  you  run'?" 

It  was  the  Senator's  turn  to  ponder,  sincerely. 
"Damn  it,  man,  that's  a  hard  bargain!"  He  turned 
his  eyes  away.     They  had  acquired  a  sudden  mist. 

For  at  that  moment  it  had  become  clear  to  the 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  79 

Senator  why  his  adored  friend  Penning  had  eased 
away  in  attentions  to  Sylvia  that  had  always  seemed 
to  her  father  as  inevitable  and  natural  as  Nature 
herself. 

"It's  a  hard  bargain,"  he  repeated,  with  his  head 
still  turned  away.  "But,  Penning,  I  want  so  much  to 
see  you  in  that  job  that  I  —  I  may  agree  to  it.  I 
won't  say  for  sure,  you  understand.  No,  I  won't  say 
for  sure!"  .  .  . 

In  proportion  as  he  had  been  talkative  when  they 
came  to  the  club,  the  Senator  was  silent  when  they 
went  away.     Scarcely  a  word  would  he  say. 

"Where's  Sylvia.*^"  he  demanded  on  entering  his 
door  at  home. 

And  his  daughter  marvelled  greatly  at  the  fervour 
of  his  kissing  her,  and  the  still  greater  fervour  of  his 
dashing  into  his  study  and  slamming  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FOR  half  an  hour  the  Senator  raged  up  and  down 
in  the  room  which  he  dignified  by  the  name  of 
study  and  kept  sacred  to  his  business  and  po- 
litical cogitations.  Viciously  he  kicked  aside  rugs, 
kicked  the  unoffending  coal  fire  in  the  open  grate, 
kicked  a  path  for  himself  through  the  heavy  oak  and 
leather  chairs,  and  burst  into  violent  conversation 
with  himself,  as  a  vent  for  his  varied  emotions. 

"What  a  damn  fool!"  he  said  once,  to  the  fire. 

"What  a  wonderful  fellow!"  he  said  to  the  darkness 
gathering  over  the  tennis  court  outside  the  rear  win- 
dow. Then,  turning  away  again,  "But  such  an  ass! 
Why  is  a  man  such  an  ass!"  he  demanded  of  a  bust 
of  Washington  on  the  marble  mantel. 

Once  he  cautiously  peeped  out  the  door.  "H'm!" 
he  growled  as  he  closed  it.  "Sylvia's  too  good  for 
any  cuss  who  can't  see  Sylvia,  that 's  all  /  've  got  to 
say!    . . . 

"No,  I  wont  have  that  rascal  Brookes  snooping 
about!"  .  .  . 

"We'll  kill  that  off  in  a  hurry!"  .  .  . 

"Oh,  it's  noble,  I  suppose!"  .  .  . 

"No.'"  The  Senator  came  to  a  stop,  nodding  his 
head  in  sudden  conviction.  "No,  nothing  's  noble  that 
isn't  sensible!  .  .  .  He'll  come  to  see  that  himself,  I 
believe."  The  Senator  resumed  his  patrol.  "Cer- 
tainly he  '11  come  to  see  that.  When  he  finds  I  won't 
stand  for  Brookes,  that  may  knock  the  hifalutin'  non- 
sense out  of  his  head.  .  .  .  Provided  — "     Again  the 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  81 

Senator  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  "Provided  he  hasn't 
gone  too  far  with  the  Gayland  girl!"  He  glared  about 
the  room  for  some  object  that  merited  a  kick.  "If 
he  has  — I    If  —  he  —  has  — !" 

For  a  moment  the  Senator  stood  there,  his  hands 
in  his  trouser  pockets,  jingling  the  keys  and  coin  there, 
and  pondered  this  matter. 

"Well!"  His  jaws  opened  to  emit  the  word,  and 
then  snapped  shut  again.  The  rest  he  sifted  through 
his  tightly  set  teeth.  "No  matter  if  he  has  or  he 
hasn't,  by  Godfrey  I  '11  make  that  man  Judge  in  spite 
of  Gayland.  In  spite  of  himself!  .  .  .  Yes,  sir!"  — 
he  started  his  pace  again  —  "I  don't  care  what  he 
thinks,  or  what  he  does,  he  's  going  to  have  that 
job.  I  'm  not  going  to  let  any  damned  foolishness 
of  his  stand  in  the  way  of  it.  It 's  for  the  general 
good.  The  public  interest  demands  it.  (By  ginger!" 
the  Senator  chuckled  parenthetically,  "I'm  glad  I 
thought  of  that.  But  it 's  true.  It  is  a  public  demand. 
I'll  make  it  one!)     Thank  goodness  that's  settled!" 

There  the  Senator,  having  ignored  two  prior  sum- 
mons to  dinner,  condescended  so  far  as  a  response  to  the 
third,  and  all  through  the  meal  puzzled  his  family 
with  his  mumbling  and  his  complicated  emotions.  But 
especially  with  his  chuckling. 

It  rather  amused  the  Senator  to  think  of  the  roar 
there  would  be  in  the  town  when  he  planted  that 
bomb  under  Gayland. 

It  amused  him  also  to  think  of  Penning,  under  such 
weighty  obligations,  cutting  any  more  son-in-law 
capers  elsewhere. 

Unfortunately  the  Senator's  hopeful  plans  were  not 
to  fructify  under  the  sunniest  of  circumstances.     At 


82  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

the  very  moment  when  he  was  plotting  the  elimina- 
tion of  Judge  Gayland,  for  the  general  good,  another 
man  in  Rossacre  was  plotting  the  elimination  of  the 
Senator  himself,  for  a  strictly  private  benefit.  While 
he  was  planting  his  own  bomb,  this  other  was  laying 
a  mine  beneath  the  Senator.  And  it  is  Rossacre  his- 
tory which  one  of  them  exploded  first. 

This  was  on  a  Saturday  evening  toward  the  close  of 
September.  The  first  patches  in  the  gold  and  crim- 
son garment  of  Autumn  had  begun  to  appear  on  the 
trees  in  The  Avenue,  though  a  few  of  the  hardier 
crickets  still  chattered  of  summer,  against  the  evi- 
dence of  encroaching  chill  in  the  air.  The  moon, 
which  had  so  thoughtfully  timed  its  orbit  to  the  Gay- 
land  ball,  was  addicted  now  to  later  hours  and  leaving 
the  night  to  its  thousand  starry  deputies,  twinkling 
crisply  in  the  cool  and  wind-swept  sky.  A  saucy 
breeze  filled  the  leaves  with  gossip  and  rumour.  To 
breathe  such  air  was  to  imbibe  a  heady  wine.  It  was 
the  season  when  Nature  takes  it  on  herself  to  see  that 
the  human  animal  is  properly  quickened  from  his 
summer  sloth  and  dosed  with  her  dozen  and  one  stimu- 
lants to  achievement. 

The  Senator  felt  it.  And  so  did  a  resident  of  Argyll 
Street  near  by. 

"All  the  same,  Rica,"  this  gentleman  was  remarking 
to  his  wife,  "I'm  going  to  land  you  on  The  Avenue, 
for  all  you  try  to  throw  everything  in  my  way. 
I'm—" 

"Oh,  no.  Walker.     You  just  think  so." 

"I  'm  going  to  be  the  boss  of  this  town  —  you  and 
me  —  that 's  what.  Lord  knows,  little  girl,  you  may 
be  living  in  the  Gayland  house  itself,  another  yegu*. 
Or  right  next  door,  get  me?"    He  winked  to  his  little 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  83 

girl.  "I  tell  you  I  'm  going  to  be  the  big  squeeze  in 
this  town.     Just  about  next  month,  too." 

"But,  Walker,  are  you  sure  it's  all  right?  Or  else 
just  think  what  people  will  say." 

"'Say'?"  Her  husband  glared  down  at  her,  his 
hands  on  his  hips,  under  the  coat  that  they  pushed 
aside  to  rest  there.  "There  you  go  again!  'Say'? 
Let  'em  say!  Say  what  they  please.  What '11  it 
amount  to?  You  can't,"  he  waved  a  long  forefinger 
oratorically  —  "You  can't  talk  back  very  well  to  the 
man  that  owns  you." 

"Yes,  Walker.  But  you  know  how  all  those  men 
stick  together.  You  know  how  they  've  kept  us  down 
as  it  is.  And  if  you  down  them,  those  women  will 
band  together  to  keep  me  down  longer  yet.  You  know 
that  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  tut!  There  you  go  again!  That's  just  like 
you,  Rica.  That 's  —  now  isn't  that  just  the  way 
you  've  always  behaved?  What  encouragement,  what 
sympathy  have  I  ever  got  out  of  you,  I  'd  like  to  know! 
Kept  you  down?  Weren't  we  both  at  the  Gaylands' 
ball  the  other  night?  Is  that  being  kept  down,  I  'd 
like  to  know?" 

"We-ell,  mebby.  Mebby  it's  all  right,  Walker.  I 
don't  see  yet  how  you're  going  to  'swing  it,'  as  you 
say.     Mebby  I  don't  understand,  that 's  all." 

"Oh,  tut!  Haven't  I  told  it  to  you  time  and  again? 
Where 's  your  wits,  woman?  Well,  I  suppose  I  've  got 
to  go  over  it  once  more.  It 's  all  right,  I  tell  you. 
It 's  all  perfectly  legitimate.  They  all  do  it.  All  the 
big  fellows  do  it.  Rockefeller,  and  Harriman,  and  all. 
Who  knows,  Rica!" 

Again  the  speaker  stood  before  his  wife  —  as  before 
a  mirror,  that  he  had  married  purposely  to  reflect  a 


84  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

perpetually  smiling  and  approving  reflection  of  him- 
self. 

"Who  knows!  Mebby  we'll  get  too  big  for  this 
little  burg,  and  land  in  New  York.  How  'd  you  like 
Fifth  Av'nue,  for  a  change?    Hey?    Hey,  little  girl?  " 

Mr.  Landis  there  chucked  his  wife  under  the 
chin. 

"W-why,  little  girl,  that's  the  way  to  grow  big. 
They  've  all  done  it.  These  small  fry  in  this  village  — 
these  big  toads  in  a  little  puddle  —  give  me  a  pain. 
Bah!"  Mr.  Landis  snapped  his  fingers.  "Do  it?  Of 
course  I  '11  do  it!     Listen  here!" 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down,  to  the  comfort- 
able duty  of  a  lecture  to  his  wife  and  an  inventory  to 
himself. 

He  was  a  lean  and  nervous  man,  with  long  fingers, 
and  stubborn  light-brown  hair,  and  thin  lips,  and  a  long 
and  pertinacious  nose,  and  two  grey  and  cunning  eyes, 
a  bit  too  closely  placed  together — rather  in  resemblance 
to  the  celebrated  financier  of  his  adoration.  So  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  tipped  his  thin  fingers, 
and  studied  the  ceiling,  and  said,  — 

"Just  see  where  we've  got  in,  let's  see  —  fifteen 
years.  Just  fifteen  years,  mind  you!  Here  I  am, 
president  of  a  new  hustling  bank  —  my  own  bank  — 
Walker  P.  Landis  &  Co.  Yesterday  I  turned  in 
twenty-five  thou'  in  Steel  Common  alone.  A  mere 
side  issue  to  me,  Rica.  Big  fellows  like  me  turn  over 
these  little  trifles  just  for  amusement.  But  could  I 
have  done  that  fifteen  years  ago?  I  guess  not!  Where 
was  I?  Where  were  you?  Hostler  on  a  farm.  And 
you  were  a  hired  girl.  Not  that  there 's  anything 
amiss  about  that.  Banks  was  a  bricklayer  to  begin 
with.     And  that  isn't  the  only  modest  start  in  this 


THE  END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  85 

town,  believe  me.  Oh,  I  know  all  there  is  to  know 
about  here.  Got  my  own  little  private  sources  of 
information.  They  can't  fool  yours  truly,  you  bet. 
But  do  you  remember  the  way  we  started  out?  I  got 
a  job  in  little  old  Banks's  coal  office.  We  got  mar- 
ried. 'Member  our  little  house  in  Charles  Street? 
'Member  that  old  ingrain  carpet  with  the  big  roses  in 
it,  hey?  'Member  that  'God  bless  our  Home,'  that 
you  prayed  in  red  wool  on  perforated  cardboard,  hey? 
And  hung  in  the  sitting-room?  'Member  that  old 
marble-topped  centre-table  in  those  days?  And  the 
chromos  of  George  and  Martha,  hey?  And  the  set  of 
dishes  with  a  green  vine  on,  that  we  thought  was  so 
fine?  'Member  the  time  when  we  hid  that  truck  away 
in  the  garret,  and  bought  a  whole  new  outfit  of  oak? 
That  was  when  I  got  to  be  secretary  of  old  Banks's 
Sullivan  County  Lumber  Co.  And  we  got  a  lot  of 
pictures  of  women  and  children  listening  to  music, 
'member  those?  And  you  wanted  that  book,  'Lorna 
Doin,'  with  the  red  leather  binding,  to  put  on  the 
parlor  table.  'Member  that?  And  the  big  diamond 
ring  I  bought  you,  about  that  time?  And  we  moved 
up  here  to  Argyll  Street,  right  off  the  Avenue?  And 
I  got  you  all  these  Chippendale  furniture  things,  right 
up  to  snuff?  Not  old  stuff,  neither,  but  nice  new 
pieces  right  out  of  the  factory!  And  the  day  you 
were  elected  to  the  Woman's  Club  — '  Mrs.  Erica 
Larsen  Landis,'  there  it  stood  in  the  book,  right  along 
with  Mrs.  Wyeth,  and  Mrs.  Warren,  and  Mrs.  Went- 
worth,  the  real  swells.  Why,  I  was  proud  of  you!  Of 
course  you  made  a  few  mistakes.  'Member  the  time 
you  went  to  an  afternoon  tea  in  a  low-neck  dress, 
Rica?  There,  there,  little  girl,  that  was  only  natural! 
We  all  have  to  learn  the  hifalutin'  way  of  doing  things. 


86  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

There,  there!  Look  at  the  hand-paintings  we  've  got  on 
the  wall  now  I     Thirty  of  them!" 

Mr.  Landis  patted  the  shoulder  of  his  blushing  wife. 

"But  here's  the  point.  Just  think  —  that  was 
only  a  few  years  ago.  Now  look  at  us!  If  I  want  to, 
I  can  just  about  own  this  whole  town!  What  do  you 
think  of  that,  Rica?" 

Mrs.  Erica  Larsen  Landis  was  a  pretty  woman  of 
forty-four,  with  a  plump  figure,  with  two  large  blue 
eyes,  an  enviable  mass  of  fluffy  blonde  hair,  and  a 
mouth  that  belonged  on  a  heroine  of  polite  fiction. 
Generally  meek  and  submissive,  there  was  a  reserve 
of  gentle,  mulish  scruple  in  her,  and  she  never  heard 
her  farm-hand  husband  descant  upon  his  progress  but 
something  in  her  argued  against  the  methods  of  his 
rise.  Neither  was  she  above  recollections  of  her  mid- 
night patching  of  his  "pants"  and  socks,  and  other 
devotions,  against  his  frequent  hint,  and  occasional 
flat  statement,  that  he  had  left  her  far  behind  him. 
Often  enough  the  Landis  household  rang  with  the 
declaration  that  its  lord  and  master  passed  therein  as 
the  least  appreciated  of  all  great  men. 

"  Now  listen,  Rica,  and  try  —  try  —  to  understand 
what  I  'm  telling  you,"  said  lord  and  master  conde- 
scended. "It 's  all  simple  enough.  And  it 's  all  legiti- 
mate, remember  that." 

Mr.  Landis  moved  to  a  more  comfortable  chair  — 
rather  he  drew  up  the  chair  to  a  commanding  position 
before  his  wife,  and  in  it  leaned  forward  in  the  direction 
of  emphasis. 

"It's  simply  this,"  he  began.  "Banks,  and  his 
crowd,  have  simply  been  kiting  —  in  the  Street  Rail- 
way Company,  and  the  Electric  Light  Company,  af- 
filiated.    Know  what  that  means?     No  matter.     The 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  87 

truth  is,  they  've  been  paying  dividends  straight  out 
of  their  capital.  Now,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  need 
cash,  to  build  a  big  extension  through  East  Rossacre, 
demanded  by  the  public.  See?  So  what  do  they  do? 
They  borrow  $600,000  on  two  notes.  But  as  a  matter 
of  form  they  get  me  to  endorse  'em.  And  for  security 
they  turn  over  to  me  the  property  and  live  assets  of 
both  companies.  The  understanding  being  that  when 
the  notes  come  due  and  they  've  got  to  meet  'em  —  as 
they  will,  for  Banks  has  mortgaged  every  living  thing 
he  's  got  to  cover  the  deal  —  then,  why,  I  '11  calmly 
turn  back  the  properties  to  them,  and  all  will  be  as 
before.  Just  so.  Well!  The  little  point  is  —  I'm 
not  going  to  turn  back  the  properties.  I  'm  going  to 
keep  'em!" 

"But,  Walker!    Won't  they  expect  'em  back?" 

"Oh,  bother!  There  you  go  again!  What  does  it 
matter  what  they  expect!  It's  close  to  a  million  in 
my  pocket,  I  tell  you!" 

"But  what  will  people  say!" 

Mr.  Landis  almost  screamed  it  —  "What  does  it 
matter  what  people  'say'!  If  that  isn't  just  like  you! 
It 's  perfectly  legitimate,  I  tell  you.  And  what 's 
more"  —  Mr.  Landis  leaned  closer  —  "what 's  more, 
it 's  my  duty  to  keep  those  properties.  Listen  to  me. 
Am  I  fulfilling  my  duty,  as  a  sound  bank  president 
and  member  of  the  community,  in  turning  over  the 
people's  property  to  a  bunch  of  bandits  who  handle 
it  like  that?  Answer  me  that!  Isn't  it  my  bounden 
duty  to  keep  those  properties,  in  the  interest  of  the 
public,  me  a  man  of  brains  and  honesty,  and  run  'em 
in  the  interest  of  the  public,  the  way  they  ought  to  be 
run?     Answer  me  that,  if  you  will!" 

Mr.  Landis  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  in  sign  of  his 


88  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

entire  satisfaction  with  his  own  judgment.  "I  tell 
you,  it 's  my  duty  to  do  it.  Isn't  Walker  P.  Landis  a 
better  man  than  Banks  was  ever  born  to  be?  I  can 
make  those  properties  pay  more  than  he  can  —  more 
to  the  stockholders,  to  the  widows  and  orphans. 
And  —  of  course  —  more  to  myself.  To  us,  you  and 
me,  Rica.  No  man  does  anything  for  nothing,  of 
course.     And  that  isn't  all." 

Once  more  Mr.  Landis  leaned  forward,  now  more  in 
confidence  than  in  declamation. 

"Just  listen  to  yours  truly,  Rica.  I  tell  you,  you 
don't  know  what  a  big  husband  you  've  got.  There  's 
the  Wannamessett  Manufacturing  Co.,  making  tin 
cans  and  sewing  machines.  It 's  in  a  hole.  Well, 
I  've  been  appointed  by  the  stockholders  a  committee 
of  one  to  value  the  property  and  buy  it  in  for  reor- 
ganisation. Well,  there  's  another  example  of  rotten 
management.  Do  you  know  what  I  'm  going  to  do  ? 
I  'm  going  to  buy  it  in  —  for  myself.  I  '11  supply  the  re- 
organisation, and  the  proper  management.  What  if 
Banks  is  interested  in  that,  too.  He  ought  to  have  it 
taken  away  from  him.  The  property  belongs  not  to 
him  but  to  the  widows  and  orphans.  And  I  'm  the 
man  to  run  it  for  'em.    That 's  all  I  've  got  to  say!" 

"Yes,  Walker.  But  —  but  what  will  become,  then, 
of  Senator  Banks.*^  And  won't  there  be  those  that 
will  say  you  've  taken  what  belongs  to  them?  Won't 
they  say  things  about  you?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  woman!"  As  Mr.  Landis  rose,  his 
feet  volunteered  assistance  in  the  expression  of  his 
impatience.  He  began  pacing  the  floor.  "'Say'!  Let 
'em  'say'!  You  don't  begin  to  suspect  what  I  know 
about  Banks.  And  about  Gayland.  And  all  those 
high  muck-a-mucks.     I  know  every  last  thing  about 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  89 

'em.  I  know  what  they  've  done,  all  right  enough. 
I  've  got  my  little  system  of  finding  out,  you  'd  better 
believe.  They  won't  dare  to  say  anything.  Not 
those  fellows,  oh,  no!  Don't  I  tell  you  that  all  three 
of  those  properties  are  busted,  the  way  they  stand 
right  now?  I  tell  you  I  'm  the  man  to  fetch  'em  to 
life  again.  That  fellow  —  what 's  his  name  —  Baer, 
wasn't  it?  —  is  right.  There  's  a  few  of  us  is  born 
with  brains  to  run  things.  We  're  trustees.  It 's  up 
to  us  to  step  in  and  run  everything  for  the  general 
good.  In  a  sort  of  way  it 's  the  Lord's  will.  What 
if  I  do  make  a  little  in  the  transaction?  That 's  the 
Lord's  will  too.     See?" 

"Yes,  Walker.  Still  —  I  suppose  —  Senator  Banks 
will  lose  something.     A  great  deal,  won't  he?" 

"But  what  if  he  does,  I  ask  you!  What  of  it!  It 's 
his  own  fault.  Here  are  the  widows  and  orphans, 
just  calling  to  yours  truly.  And  now  see  here,  little 
girl."  Once  again  Mr.  Landis  consented  to  be  seated 
before  his  wife.  "Let's  look  at  it  this  way.  Let's 
come  down  to  brass  tacks.  Look  what  there  is  in  it 
for  us  —  for  you,  honey!  You  want  an  automobile, 
don't  you?  A  limousine,  mind  you.  And  a  shoffer. 
And  a  French  maid.  And  trips  to  Europe.  And  a 
house  on  The  Avenue.  There  won't  be  any  Bankses 
and  Gaylands,  then,  honey  girl.  It  '11  be  the  Landises, 
and  their  balls,  and  their  receptions,  and  all  that. 
You  '11  be  the  boss  lady  of  the  town,  with  your  name 
in  the  papers,  and  all  that.  And,  yours  truly  will  just 
own  this  little  burg,  that 's  about  all.  After  that  — 
who  knows?  —  mebby  a  branch  office  in  Wall  Street. 
D'  you  hear  that?  Mebby  a  house  in  New  York  — 
on  Fifth  Avenue?  What  'd  you  say  to  that,  honey! 
Stranger  things  've  happened.     Oh,  you  don't  know 


90  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

the  schemes  I  've  got  in  this  little  old  head  of  mine, 
little  girl!  Haven't  I  always  told  you  you  never 
appreciated  me?"  And  again  Mr.  Landis  chucked 
his  little  girl  under  the  chin.  "I  guess  we've  got 
somewhere  already,  haven't  we?  Well,  that 's  only  a 
beginning.    Just  wait  and  see  where  we  come  out!" 

She  smiled  up  at  him  —  yes,  proudly.  After  all,  it 
might  be  that  he  knew  a  great  deal  more  of  the  world 
than  she.  After  all,  her  misgivings  might  be  only  the 
product  of  her  ignorance.  And  those  aristocrats  on 
The  Avenue  had  indeed  treated  her  abominably.  If 
there  were  other  people  of  more  brains,  what  right  had 
those  to  complain  if  they  were  passed  by ! 

Mrs.  Landis  rose  and  kissed  her  husband. 

"Are  you  sure  they  all  do  it?"  she  asked.  "Rocke- 
feller, and  all?" 

"Oh,  ho!  They  more  than  do  it!  By  heavens,  this 
little  squirt  of  a  village  doesn't  know  what  a  man  it 's 
got  in  its  midst,  that  's  all  I  've  got  to  say!  And  what 
a  sweet  little  woman,  too!  I  'm  doing  it  all  for  you, 
Rica.  Talk  about  your  knights  of  old!  I  guess  I  'm 
one,  eh?"  .  .  . 

Whatever  Mr.  Landis  was,  he  was  pleased  with  Mr. 
Landis.  "Only  one  little  thing  missing,  girlie.  You 
know  what.  No  little  Walker  Jr.  tearing  about  the 
house.  But  there,  there!  Don't  cry  again.  Mebby 
sometime —  You  never  can  tell.  Eh?"  He  drew 
out  his  watch.  "Now  I  'm  going  to  take  a  little  turn 
around  the  block,  to  get  things  just  straight  in  my 
mind.  Back  in  a  jiffy.  Three  little  weeks,  and  then 
the  axe  will  fall.  I  want  to  make  sure  that  I  swing  it 
just  right,  that 's  all.  Remember,  a  limousine  and  a 
shoffer  for  my  little  lady!  What?  D'  you  hear  me, 
little  girl?" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  91 

With  that  Mr.  Landis  kissed  his  wife  —  was  still 
kissing  his  hand  to  her  as  the  front  door  closed  after 
his  retreating  person. 

And  if  she  wondered  that  he  donned  an  old  coat 
and  his  oldest  hat,  she  said  nothing,  being  unaccus- 
tomed to  dispute  of  his  whims. 

But  the  moment  Mr.  Landis  was  off  his  front  piazza 
he  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat,  though  it  was  not 
so  blithering  cold,  and  jammed  down  over  his  face 
the  rim  of  his  oldest  and  least  familiar  hat.  And  in- 
stead of  strolling  round  the  block  he  marched  at  a 
rapid  pace  out  Argyll  Street,  across  The  Avenue,  through 
the  tunnel  that  carried  Argyll  Street  under  the  rail- 
road, and  sought  a  small  wooded  park  about  a  mile 
on  the  way  to  the  hills  on  the  rim  of  the  town. 

At  the  farther  side  of  this  park  he  turned  to  his  left, 
skirting  the  trees  for  perhaps  a  block.  There  he 
paused,  glanced  cautiously  about  him,  and  uttered  a 
low  whistle. 

In  answer  to  his  signal  the  veiled  figure  of  a  woman 
stepped  forth  from  the  shrubbery.  And  together  they 
waded  through  the  long,  and  now  Autumn-withered, 
grass  to  a  rustic  bench  and  sat  down  together. 

The  shell  of  veiling  and  cloaking  contained  the 
source  of  Mr.  Landis's  reliable  information  —  along 
with  the  well-rounded  figure  of  Mrs.  Nellie  Branstane. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NOT,  of  course,  that  these  were  the  only  matters 
"doing"  in  the  little  city.  About  these  more 
picturesque  incidents  Rossacre  wrapped  its 
busy  life,  its  seething  activities,  after  the  human  and 
the  Rossacre  fashion. 

"Found  a  sucker  to  buy  your  house  after  all,  I 
hear!"  Jackson  will  roughly  chaffer  his  neighbour. 
Which  is  doing  fairly  well  for  a  man  under  strict  ban 
by  a  formidable  wife  for  his  additions  to  the  business 
of  the  three  excellent  breweries  of  the  town. 

Other  Jacksons  with  their  wives  throng  the  streets 
of  evenings,  or  circle  the  brightly  lighted  Market 
Square,  the  merry  open-air  club  of  shop  clerk  or  mill- 
hand,  to  observe  what  other  Jacksons  still  may  be 
abroad,  and  barter  pleasantries  with  them,  and  above 
all  note  what  they  wear.  At  "The  Old  Corner"  the 
deviled  crabs  continue  to  outdo  anything  that  crabs 
have  ever  accomplished  for  Baltimore  —  though  it 
takes  more  than  deviled  crabs  to  hedge  and  bound  and 
cabin  the  multifarious  tastes  of  Rossacre.  The  Movies 
invite  the  dimes  and  the  presence  of  hundreds  of 
swains,  eager  to  impress  their  sweethearts.  Two  ex- 
cellent and  intensely  rival  brass  bands  seize  upon  every 
conceivable  excuse  to  parade  the  streets  or  serenade 
political  powers  whose  cause  and  whose  cheque-book 
enjoy  respect.  The  Oratorio  Society  has  begun  its  new 
season  of  rehearsals  for  a  perfectly  recognisable  ver- 
sion of  "The  Messiah."    The  Rev.  Arthur  Wiggin  has 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  93 

called  together  again  his  large  and  devout  club  for  the 
discovery  of  meanings  in  the  works  of  Wells  and  Shaw 
never  inserted  there  by  their  authors.  Day  after  day 
the  policeman  on  the  corner  widens  his  acquaintance 
and  lengthens  his  belt.  Much  more  sensitively  Ross- 
acre  vibrates  to  the  rattle  of  its  delivery  wagons, 
thumping  out  the  hard  music  of  its  thrift.  Busily 
hum  the  mills. 

And  in  much  the  same  manner  hummed  the  brain 
of  Miss  Annabel  Gayland. 

One  day  about  then,  when  the  Judge  had  reached 
home  a  little  early  for  luncheon  and  had  gone  to  his 
dressing-room  to  freshen  his  scarf,  he  answered  a  knock 
at  his  door  to  confront  his  daughter,  awaiting  him 
there  in  the  gallery  outside,  her  eyes  brimming  with 
mysterious  mischief,  her  person  informing  the  fluffy 
grey  house  gown  that  her  father  chiefly  fancied. 

"Come  on.  Dad!"  Promptly  she  seizes  him.  "I  'm 
bursting  to  show  you  this  new  step  in  the  waltz.  Now 
watch  me.     This  way.     See?" 

In  a  minute  they  had  compassed  the  length  of  the 
gallery,  and  the  Judge  had  caught  something  of  his 
daughter's  hilarity,  and  fell  to  whistling  the  old- 
fashioned  "Blue  Alsatian  Mountains,"  to  keep  their 
tempo  the  better. 

Soon  their  feet  and  their  spirits  degenerated  into 
burlesque,  and  they  fell  into  a  weird  imitation  of 
Mordkin  and  Pavlowa,  till  rugs  and  chairs  were 
pushed  awry  and  both  of  them  were  breathless  from 
pent-up  laughter  and  from  heroic  endeavour. 

In  a  word.  Miss  Annabel's  usual  strategy  of  pre- 
paring her  father  for  the  shock  of  any  unusual  request 
would  have  prospered  as  of  old  but  for  the  savage 
and  untimely  clangour  of  the  luncheon  bell  below. 


94  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Father,  father!"  Miss  Annabel  suddenly  stopped, 
seeing  how  short  was  the  time,  and  whispered, 
"Listen.     I  've  something  to  tell  you." 

"Hush!"  the  Judge  mimicked  her  mystery.  "What 
can  it  be!" 

"Don't  laugh,  father  —  please,  please.  I've  been 
thinking  — " 

"Thinking!  My  stars,  Sister  Agatha!  Thinking! 
Never  again  let  me  hear  of  your  doing  such  a  thing. 
It's  so  unlady-like.    Ugh!"    And  he  rolled  his  eyes. 

"Hush,  father.  I'm  in  earnest.  And  it's  some- 
thing very  solemn  and  sacred.  I  've  just  thought  how 
I  can  be  a  missionary  after  all." 

In  earnest  now  on  his  own  part,  the  Judge  glanced 
at  her  sharply  and  his  face  clouded.  "That  again?" 
he  asked  wearily. 

"But  father,  listen!"  Miss  Annabel  artfully  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  fairly  sang  her  words 
in  the  endeavour  to  lend  them  the  utmost  of  seduction. 
"I  can  be  a  missionary  right  here  at  home!" 

"Oh,  really!"  The  father  laughed  aloud  his  relief. 
"I  had  no  idea  we  were  so  bad  as  all  that,  daughter!" 

"But,"  she  ventured,  looking  up  at  him  with  every- 
thing she  could  command  in  the  way  of  piteous  be- 
seeching, "I  meant  only  to  begin  on  Mrs.  Branstane." 

And  to  the  surprise  of  his  daughter  the  Judge  once 
more  fell  away  into  laughter  —  of  a  vigour  and  a  pro- 
longation that  quite  perplexed  her. 

"You  —  you  think  Mrs.  Branstane  needs  regenera- 
tion?" he  explained  himself  at  length. 

"I  'm  not  joking,  father,"  Annabel  rebuked  him 
with  her  seriousness.  "I  want  you  to  do  something 
for  me  —  to-day  —  and  for  me,  you  know." 

"Yes,  yes,  daughter.     After  luncheon.     We  mustn't 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  95 

keep  them  waiting."  And  the  Judge  started  luncheon- 
ward.  He  was  perplexed  himself,  and  suspicious,  and 
he  studied  Annabel  narrowly.  Besides,  they  heard 
Mrs.  Branstane  herself  calling  none  too  patiently  — 
and  what  that  signified  the  Judge  knew  well. 

"No,  no;  wait,  father.  I  want  you  to  do  some- 
thing to  make  Mrs.  Branstane's  life  more  —  more  like 
ours.  It  does  seem  that  we  haven't  been  altogether 
fair  to  her.  She  's  quite  eager  to  improve  herself. 
Now,  wait,  waitl"  She  plucked  at  his  sleeve.  "We  're 
going  to  do  something  to  help  her,  father;  you  and  I 
together  — " 

The  Judge  did  halt  there,  and  looked  his  daughter 
over  more  carefully  than  ever.  "Why,  why!  What 's 
all  this!  You  mustn't  take  her  complaints  too 
seriously." 

Miss  Annabel  stamped  her  foot  and  bit  her  lip. 
"Oh,  men  are  so  provoking!  Father,  listen  to  me. 
You  and  I  are  going  to  make  that  woman's  life  more 
bearable,  do  you  understand.^  I  want  you  yourself 
to  ask  Mrs.  Branstane  to  sit  with  us  at  the  table  at 
luncheon  to-day.  Will  you?"  She  flung  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  said  into  his  handsome  face,  with 
all  the  might  of  her  charm,  "To  please  me?" 

As  for  the  Judge,  he  scarcely  heard  what  she  said, 
but  stood  entranced  before  the  lovely  picture  of  his 
daughter  —  until,  finally,  his  mind  slowly  let  in  the 
idea  she  had  offered  it. 

"Ira!"  they  heard  Mrs.  Gayland  herself  complain 
from  below.  She  was  always  a  bit  jealous  of  this 
complete  understanding  between  her  daughter  and 
her  spouse.  "Are  you  two  never  coming  down  to 
luncheon!" 

"No!"    the    Judge    tJmost    shouted,    till    Annabel 


96  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

tittered  at  the  odd  manner  in  which  his  answer  to  her 
had  fallen  upon  the  questioner  below  stairs. 

The  titter  ceased  suddenly,  when  the  Judge  turned 
from  her  with  a  jerk  that  was  rough  and  petulant, 
and  left  her  pained  and  surprised.  And  she  followed 
him  down  and  into  the  dining-room  without  more 
words.  And  in  silence  they  disposed  of  a  dismal 
meal. 

For  Mrs.  Branstane's  uses,  Judge  Gayland  was 
fashioned  to  order.  Unerringly,  from  among  all  the 
world's  millions,  such  men  and  such  women  find  each 
other.  Or  perhaps  they  become  moulded  to  each  other's 
purposes.  Always  Gayland  had  loved  comfort,  and 
long  ago  Mrs.  Branstane  had  discovered  the  amuse- 
ment of  combat.  Till  then,  for  her  own  convenience, 
she  had  been  content  to  bully  him  in  secret;  yet  never 
since  he  had  known  her,  and  that  was  long  ago,  could  he 
remember  the  woman  when  she  did  not  represent  to 
him  a  sort  of  fort  of  vitality,  thrown  up  about  the 
point  of  her  mythical  wrongs  at  his  hands.  Without 
the  willingness,  the  strength,  perhaps  the  wit,  to  fight 
her,  the  Judge  had  long  before  surrendered,  and  daily 
she  had  bullied  him  the  more  daringly. 

Still,  the  Judge  fared  better  than  any  other  man 
would  have  fared  against  the  same  unhappy  odds. 
He  had  learned  to  take  refuge  in  the  miracle  of 
Distance,  this  grateful  ability  of  one  object  in  the 
landscape  to  be  separate  from  every  other.  He  had 
acquired  a  kind  of  cleverness  in  keeping  between  him- 
self and  Mrs.  Branstane  as  many  doors  as  possible. 
The  very  trait  that  had  first  fixed  her  upon  him,  now 
provided  his  best  defence  against  her.  He  endured 
his  plague  as  the  neglectful  endure  a  tooth  that  cries 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  97 

for  attention.  His  humours  succeeded  each  other 
quickly;  he  had  the  blessing  of  a  short  memory;  and 
the  moment  the  tooth  could  be  forgotten,  he  could 
forget  that  there  is  a  future. 

But  here  was  a  totally  new  attack,  a  new  engine 
turned  against  him  —  his  daughter's  sympathies,  her 
blind  and  impetuous  generosity.  Mrs.  Branstane  had 
enlisted  it  for  herself.  The  Judge  heard  it  from  Anna- 
bel's own  lips  as  she  pleaded  with  him  there  in  the 
hallway.  His  "pal,"  the  comrade  he  had  always 
counted  upon  to  save  him,  was  cleverly  turned  against 
him. 

He  wondered  by  what  devilish  ingenuity  the  thing 
had  been  accomplished. 

Yet  the  trick  had  been  simple  enough.  Till  then, 
and  through  all  the  years  of  Annabel's  girlhood,  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  risked  nothing  from  the  Judge's 
daughter.  Even  yet  she  blushed  to  recall  the  merry 
remarks  she  had  heard  when,  one  day,  twelve  years 
of  Annabel  had  peeped  in  at  her  open  door  and  had 
surprised  her  making  pretty  faces  in  the  mirror. 
Always  Annabel  was  the  first  to  confess  her  own 
faults;  but  she  employed  equal  candour  upon  the  fail- 
ings of  others,  whenever  their  conceit  annoyed  her. 
Not  for  nothing  had  Mrs.  Gayland  herself  thrown  up 
her  hands  in  consternation  at  a  child  able  to  look  up 
from  her  very  last  spanking,  to  say, 

"There,  mother;  that  hurt  beautifully.  But  now 
you  '11  have  to  spank  me  again,  because  I  've  lost  your 
temper  too." 

Upon  such  a  wit  Mrs.  Branstane  had  known  better 
than  to  drum  too  hard,  with  any  fabrication  that 
would  not  stand  a  pretty  severe  test  of  good  sense. 


98  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Then,  suddenly,  she  had  stumbled  upon  a  great,  a 
useful  discovery. 

Annabel,  she  scolded  herself  for  not  having  per- 
ceived long  before,  was  overwhelmingly  generous  — 
blindly  generous,  once  her  feelings  were  thoroughly 
aroused.  Yet,  in  time,  the  discovery  of  this  had 
occurred  to  Mrs.  Branstane,  on  the  morning  after  the 
ball,  when  she  had  first  stirred  Annabel's  interest  in 
the  dull  colours  of  her  life. 

So,  with  the  happiest  motive  in  the  world,  the 
Judge's  only  ally  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XIIx 

EVEN  Mrs.  Gayland  herself  was  equal  to  a  dis- 
covery of  her  own  then.  For  the  time  being, 
she  was  able  to  discern,  an  insidious  element  of 
decay  had  set  in  in  her  household.  Never  before  had 
she  been  so  shocked  by  this  annoying  propensity  of 
one  thing  to  lead  to  another. 

Ordinary  misfortunes,  like  the  loss  of  a  hair-pin  or 
a  quarter,  she  was  wont  to  set  down  as  movements  of 
a  baffling  Providence  —  perhaps  in  punishment  of  a 
sinful  thought,  or  a  failure  to  drop  enough  into  the 
collection  plate  of  a  Sunday.  But  now  this  very  seri- 
ous annoyance,  this  new  impudence  in  her  housekeeper, 
to  keep  Mrs.  Gayland  frowning  and  puzzled! 

As,  slowly,  it  had  dawned  upon  her  that  she  had 
been  affronted  by  her  handmaid,  Mrs.  Gayland  had 
done  much  mumbling  in  the  night  watches.  There 
would  have  to  be  a  reckoning  with  Nellie,  she  decided; 
yet  so  far  she  had  shrunk  from  the  vulgar  encounter, 
or  else  had  not  found  quite  the  propitious  occasion. 

Moreover,  even  outside  her  house,  Providence  in- 
vented other  and  more  elaborate  means  of  chastise- 
ment for  Mrs.  Gayland.  For  one  thing  she  observed, 
with  acute  suffering  and  inward  searching,  that  her 
voice  was  not  heard  with  the  old  respect  in  the 
councils  of  the  D.  A.  R.  At  their  last  meeting  they 
had  the  effrontery  to  reject  her  scheme  of  decorations 
for  the  next  reception.  A  thing  that  had  never  hap- 
pened before.     In  high  dudgeon  she  came  home  with 


100  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

the  news,  and  when  she  let  it  out  at  the  dinner-table 
that  evening,  Mrs.  Branstane  smiled  and  Judge  Gay- 
land  received  the  blow  with  head  devoutly  bowed  over 
his  soup. 

"Eh,  ye-ess!"  Mrs.  Gayland  sighed  at  his  behaviour. 
"That's  all  the  sympathy  I  get  from  you!" 

Rather,  the  Judge  extended  to  himself  all  the  sym- 
pathy he  felt.  He  knew  the  full  portent  of  that  stroke 
at  his  wife.  It  signified  a  subtle  assault  upon  the 
social  citadel  so  long  and  so  impregnably  held  by  the 
Gaylands  in  Rossacre. 

Hardly  had  the  gossips  of  the  D.  A.  R.  finished  with 
this  exquisite  bit  at  the  expense  of  their  longtime 
social  sovereign,  when  that  poor  lady  was  called  upon 
by  Providence  to  suffer  a  still  more  grievous  injury. 
This  new  misfortune  approached  the  dignity  of  a 
crash. 

For  long  years  Mrs.  Gayland  had  been  the  inform- 
ing spirit  of  the  great  and  one  Woman's  Club  of 
Rossacre.  With  a  high  devotion  and  impassioned  in- 
dustry they  had  consecrated  themselves  to  the  planting 
of  more  shade  trees;  they  had  annihilated  want,  and 
combated  child  labour  —  where  they  could  find  it  — 
and  held  teas,  and  listened  to  innumerable  lectures 
on  City  Planning,  and  Browning,  and  Municipal 
Government.  Indeed  this  whole  great  —  they  called 
it  movement  —  had  been  organised  in  the  beginning 
at  Mrs.  Gayland's  instance.  But  the  great  plague  in 
this  world  is  that  young  folk,  with  their  fresh  energy 
and  newer  ideas,  are  for  ever  coming  on.  Insidiously 
bright  young  women  crept  into  the  Club,  under  the 
very  aegis  of  Mrs.  Gayland  —  young  women  who 
knew  New  York  and  Chicago  almost  as  well  as  they 
knew  London  and  Paris,  who  could  rip  Botticelli  up 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  101 

the  back,  who  not  merely  knew  "the  best  people" 
everywhere  but  quickly  considered  themselves  to  be 
the  best  people  wherever  they  were.  And  though  for 
years  Mrs.  Gayland  had  pre-empted  the  presidency  of 
this  organization,  as  a  right,  as  an  acknowledgment 
due  to  her  distinguished  services  in  behalf  of  man- 
kind, the  time  had  come  when  the  ladies  secretly  looked 
upon  their  quondam  leader  as  a  figurehead.  A  few  of 
them  had  already  begun  to  observe  this  to  each  other 
in  whispers.  Finally,  and  flatly,  they  came  to  regard 
her  as  an  incubus  outright.  And  one  day  the  whole 
Club  confirmed  this  fact,  openly,  and  in  the  most  dra- 
matic manner. 

The  annual  election  of  officers  had  for  years  fol- 
lowed a  set  routine,  and  the  good  ladies  had  come  to 
dignify  what  would  have  been  otherwise  a  dull  for- 
mality with  a  reception,  a  lecture  by  someone  of 
note,  before  this  final  world-stopping  function  of  fitting 
the  old  head  to  an  ever  youthful  body.  The  Gayland 
drawing-room,  then  the  Gayland  ball-room,  having 
grown  too  small  for  the  deliberations  of  the  Club, 
they  had  taken  their  parleyings  to  permanent  quarters 
at  the  City  Hotel.  And  long  was  the  line  of  motors,  not 
without  a  few  limousines  and  broughams,  that  fringed 
the  curb  in  front  of  that  popular  haven  on  this  last 
great  day. 

Into  the  rooms  occupied  by  the  Club  —  rather  sump- 
tuous, as  Rossacre  elegance  goes  —  flocked  the  flower 
of  the  region,  and  made  speech  together  —  speech  in 
the  volume  of  a  cataract.  All  the  old  lace  and  the 
new  silk  of  the  little  city  were  open  to  review,  along 
with  all  the  top  hats  and  tailed  coats  —  some  of  the 
finery  adorning  even  representatives  from  the  second 
stratum  of  society,  like  the  Landises,  the  Demises,  and 


102  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

a  few  brainy  teachers  from  the  schools.  The  Rev. 
Arthur  Wiggin  had  a  civic  as  well  as  a  personal  pride 
in  exhibiting  on  his  arm  the  dark  beauty  of  Miss 
Carolyn  Hammond,  authority  on  Latin  in  the  High 
School.  A  hidden  orchestra  offered  occasional  inter- 
ruption to  the  conversation.  The  dowagers  laid  on 
their  heaviest  majesty,  the  belles  their  maximum 
charm,  and  happiness  was  supreme.  No  less  a  figure 
than  the  Governor  of  the  Commonwealth  was  to 
speak,  after  suitable  introduction  by  the  Hon.  Andrew 
Penning,  on  the  intimate  machinery  of  our  national 
political  conventions. 

And  possibly  it  was  because  everybody  was  so 
concerned  with  himself  or  herself,  or  with  some  oppo- 
site in  sex,  that  Miss  Annabel  Gayland  and  the  gentle- 
man whom  she  privately  entitled  His  Shyness,  became 
suddenly  together  and  alone  in  the  president's  office  — 
of  perfect  right,  of  course,  to  be  shaded  behind  a 
jungle  of  enshrouding  palms.  At  least  Miss  Annabel 
had  wandered  thither,  somehow,  in  a  reflective  and 
explorative  humour;  and  somehow  Mr.  Penning  had 
followed  her,  in  much  the  same  humour. 

"I  —  I  happened  to  be  passing  the  door.  Miss  Gay- 
land,"  he  fibbed  wastefuUy.  "And  seeing  you  here  I  — 
thought  I  had  better  step  in  and  see  —  see  how  you  are." 

"Oh,"  she  answered.  "How  sympathetic.  Do  I 
look  ill?" 

"Oh,  no!     I—" 

"Oh,  you  wished  to  see  me  —  about  something  in 
particular.^" 

Miss  Gayland's  sweetly  and  eagerly  parted  lips,  her 
wide-opened  and  scrupulously  non-twinkling  eyes,  sig- 
nified her  readiness  for  the  shock  of  any  very  gravest 
business   anyone   might   submit.     Miss    Gayland  said 


THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  103 

nothing  to  Mr.  Penning  of  having  seen  him,  from  her 
station  behind  the  palms,  pass  and  repass  the  door 
uncertainly  and  enter  at  last  with  a  daring  and  reso- 
lute fling  of  his  head.  Being  Miss  Annabel,  she  de- 
murely asked  again, 

"You  wished  to  see  me  about  something  in  par- 
ticular?" 

"Well,  yes,  —  yes.  I  thought  I  —  I  really  find  you 
well  to-day  .►^" 

Suddenly,  by  way  of  suitably  employing  themselves, 
they  shook  hands.  As  suddenly  both  of  them  burst 
into  merry  laughter,  at  themselves  and  at  each  other, 
and  thenceforth  dropped  their  shy  pretenses. 

Through  a  window  opened  against  the  stuffy  air  of 
the  crowded  rooms  a  meandering  breeze  stole  in  and 
brushed  against  Miss  Annabel's  filmy  skirts  like  an 
affectionate  kitten,  and  pawed  absurdly  at  the  tails 
of  Mr.  Penning's  coat.  Feathery  clouds,  merrily  col- 
oured leaves  of  Autumn,  and  many  other  properties  of 
the  outside  world  peeped  in  at  the  window.  Quite 
unconscious  of  these  prodigies  of  Nature,  Miss  Gayland 
and  Mr.  Penning  spoke  rather  —  it  is  possible  that 
they  spoke  of  a  number  of  things.  Things  such  as  two 
beings  commonly  discuss,  when  they  are  young  and 
are  left  together,  without  any  serious  prejudice  against 
matrimony.  Inevitably  their  concern  will  be  fixed 
upon  the  superior  merits  of  the  Baldwin  apple,  or  the 
excellent  preserves  put  up  by  one's  grandmother. 
Mr.  Penning  may  go  so  far  as  to  remark  upon  one 
preserved  peach  open  to  his  observation.  Young  men 
are  inclined  to  be  venturesome. 

In  fact  Mr.  Penning  ventured  farther.  Rummaging 
with  his  eyes  the  spectacle  before  him  he  abruptly 
exclaimed, 


104  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"I  say,  Miss  Annabel,  there  is  such  a  striking  thing 
about  you,  I  find!" 

"So?" 

"Yes  —  yes.  You  —  you  are  so  tremendously  a 
girl!" 

"That,"  says  Miss  Annabel  gravely,  "is  something 
very  serious.  But  there  's  a  thing  I  've  often  noticed 
in  men," 

"That  is—?" 

"They  've  got  such  a  lot  of  human  nature." 

"Oh,  no!    That  all  belongs  to  the  lepidoptera!" 

"The  what?" 

"The  butterflies,"  Penning  laughs  like  a  schoolboy, 
—  as  well  he  may. 

"Disgraceful!  I  suppose  you  mean  that  to  be  a 
cut  at  girls." 

"Oh,  oh,  I—" 

"And  I  thought  you  were  above  such  a  common 
attitude.  Penning  —  Mr.  Penning.  I  'm  so  disap- 
pointed. I  've  gathered  that  you  are  very  deceiving  to 
young  women." 

"Oh,  oh,  I—" 

"Last  year,  when  Charlotte  Wood  was  married,  you 
sent  her  a  copy  of  'Paradise  Lost.'  What  does  that 
mean,  I  wonder?" 

Whatever  the  meaning  of  these  two  it  was  not  in 
their  words  but  in  their  behaviour.  For  insensibly  they 
had  moved  closer,  and  now  stood  so  near  together 
that  their  faces  all  but  touched.  Rossacre  surged  past 
a  not  very  distant  door  and  may  have  been  perfectly 
aware  of  that  fact  of  their  nearness  —  more  aware  of 
it  than  Miss  Gayland  and  Mr.  Penning  themselves. 
That  lady  and  gentleman  were  absorbed  instead  in 
angling  exquisite  significances  from  this  empty  badi- 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  105 

nage;  they  toyed  with  the  veriest  commonplaces,  about 
the  weather,  about  anything,  and  filled  them  with 
the  subtlest  meanings;  they  bandied  callow  innuendos, 
of  the  most  delicate  and  delightful  import.  In  a  word, 
they  were  stating  the  fact  of  interest  in  each  other, 
in  the  elaborate  circumlocutions  enforced  by  the  con- 
ditions of  this  century  of  sense  and  science.  Lord 
knows,  they  may  even  have  fallen  to  perfectly  sensible 
discourse,  fit  for  any  third  person  to  hear.  Once,  at 
any  rate,  they  turned  toward  the  window  in  silence, 
for  there  was  expressive  communion  now  in  the  dumb 
physical  nearness  of  their  two  persons.  Finally  some- 
thing of  the  characteristic  Annabel  spoke  out,  for  it 
was  never  long  suppressed :  — 

"You  look  tired.  Penning."  And  this  time,  it  is 
notable,  she  forgets  to  add  the  Mr.  "Can  anything 
be  amiss  with  you?" 

That  was  the  charm  of  Annabel  —  apart  from  her 
personal  loveliness.  In  spite  of  the  serious  business  of 
being  herself,  the  interests  outside  were  always  sure 
of  her  notice. 

For  answer  Penning  touched  on  something  that 
he  had  never  before  mentioned  to  another.  He  said 
he  was  worried  about  his  work.  And  even  made 
effort  to  explain  the  point  in  a  case  that  puzzled 
him. 

Quite  aware  of  the  distinction  in  her  favour,  Annabel 
listened  with  avidity. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  thinking  for  a  moment 
or  two  after  he  had  finished,  "it  must  be  anything  but 
cheering  to  see  people  always  fighting,  always  on  their 
mean  side."  She  was  calmly  taking  possession  of  his 
confidence  then,  where  none  had  succeeded  before. 
"It  can't  be  very  amusing  to  be  a  lawyer." 


106  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"He  looks  on  at  a  squirming  of  worms,"  Penning 
confessed,  wearily  because  naturally  at  last. 

Then  he  laughed.  It  occurred  to  him  for  the  first 
time  that  he  was  not  talking  to  a  silly  girl.  "I  often 
wonder  that  the  immortal  angels  of  heaven  don't  die 
a  natural  death  of  laughter,  looking  down  at  the 
spectacle  of  mighty  Man!  The  wrongs  he  does  do 
himself  1  Seems  as  if  the  Maker  of  this  little  world 
had  gone  away  and  left  it  in  charge  of  an  office-boy. 
Looking  about  you  here,  doesn't  it  make  you  grin? 
Why  do  we  tolerate  any  distinctions  besides  qualites 
of  heart  and  brain?" 

He  was  beyond  her,  but  she  loved  to  listen  —  and 
showed  that  she  did. 

The  encouragement  in  her  eyes,  new  to  him,  was 
irresistible.  So  he  prated  on  —  not  much  more  suc- 
cessfully than  any  other  who  has  tried  to  confine  the 
world  to  words. 

"I  believe  I  know  why  we  have  other  distinctions  — 
like  these  about  us.  I  'm  afraid  it 's  because  we  have 
women  —  and  their  human  nature.  There  's  such  a 
thing  as  'society'  because  there  are  mothers  with 
daughters.  It 's  a  marriage  mart.  A  girl  is  '  intro- 
duced to  society '  —  an  announcement  that  she  is  For 
Marriage.  Then  barriers  are  put  up,  so  that  only  the 
most  select  need  apply.  And  the  women  do  it."  He 
laughed  down  at  her  gently.  "And  do  you  know  why 
there  's  such  a  thing  as  war?  It 's  because  men  get 
periodically  weary  of  this  terrible  tyranny  of  manners; 
they  get  seized  with  a  fever  for  the  free  life  of  the 
camp,  where  they  can  live  as  they  please,  and  like 
and  dislike  as  they  please,  without  this  eternal  dicta- 
tion from  policy.  .  .  . 

"Good  Lordl"  he  broke  off,  "how  I  do  preach!" 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  107 

"But,"  said  Annabel,  "it's  just  what  I  think!" 
"Ah!"    the    compliment    made    him    beam,    "that 
makes  it  important," 

"Yes,  but  I  never  thought  it  till  now!"  she  con- 
fessed, and  was  eager  to  go  on,  but  that  something 
played  tricks  with  her  voice,  and  she  did  not  then 
finish  her  rapture.  For,  everything  else  with  them 
merging  as  it  did,  the  inconsequential  merging  of 
their  physical  presences  accomplished  itself  without 
their  knowing;  and  once  more  in  the  history  of  the 
world  the  universe  dropped  away  and  became  nothing 
but  the  touch  of  two  pairs  of  lips.  And  straightway 
words  deserted  these  two,  for  love  has  said  nothing 
until  it  has  gone  dumb. 

The  defective  world  brought  itself  back  to  them  in 
time,  through  the  agency  of  Annabel's  sense  of  humour. 

With  a  twinkling  eye  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
said,  "  Mercy,  but  this  is  good  and  sudden,  isn't  it? 
But  —  of  course  I  can't  answer  for  you  —  but  —  but 
I  'm  not  very  good  at  waiting.  I  like  immediate  re- 
sults. And  I  saw  that  you  —  you  needed  guidance 
and  prayer.  And  —  and  really  I  could  have  given 
you  an  awful  chase;  only  —  "  She  hid  her  furious 
blushes  on  his  shoulder  again,  and  there  mumbled  the 
rest,  " — only,  I  was  so  deathly  afraid  —  you  —  you 
wouldn't  follow!" 

Penning  spoke  eloquently  with  his  arms. 

It  is  quite  probable  that  Mr.  Penning  and  Miss 
Gayland  took  this  to  be  a  very  grand  moment  indeed, 
very  different  from  anything  that  had  ever  happened, 
to  anybody  on  earth,  before.  And  they  remained  in 
this  interesting  attitude  until  Miss  Annabel  very  sud- 
denly and  very  violently  tore  away  from  Mr.  Penning, 


108  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

and  flew  to  embrace  Mrs.  Helen  Branstane,  who  then 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  whose  face  published 
the  natural  sentiments  of  one  woman  toward  another 
caught  in  the  sugary  beginnings  of  mortal  love. 

"Come,  Penning!"  Annabel  implored,  when  her 
confusion  had  subsided  to  the  point  of  speech.  "I 
want  to  present  you  to  a  new  and  dear  friend  of 
mine,  Mrs.  Branstane.  You  '11  know  how  to  appre- 
ciate her.  You  've  seen  her  often  enough  at  our  house. 
Penning;  but  you've  never  really  known  her.  And 
from  now  on  I  want  you  two  to  be  the  very  best  of 
friends  —  my  two  best  pals.     Do  you  hear?" 

Wondering  what  new  caprice  had  settled  upon 
Annabel,  Penning  made  the  woman  his  best  bow, 
albeit  with  a  flavour  of  amusement  that  proclaimed 
him  a  fixed  part  of  the  world  he  condemned. 

"And  now,  Auntie,"  Annabel  cried,  when  this  was 
accomplished,  "run  along;  because  Penning  and  I 
want  to  talk  about  you.  And,"  she  added  archly, 
"you  may  think  whatever  you  please  about  me!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  turned  away,  a  smile  of  utter  know- 
ing on  her  visage;  and  Annabel  ran  and  shook  Pen- 
ning's  shoulder,  or  as  much  of  it  as  she  could  grasp. 

"You  —  you  worse  than  a  hypocrite!  You  poli- 
tician! You  can  preach.  You  can  sob  over  the  slums, 
and  then  snub  Auntie  Branstane!  That  is  laughing  at 
me,  young  man.  Now,  listen.  It  isn't  as  you  sup- 
pose. I  'm  not  a  silly,  sentimentalizing  girl.  I  've 
made  a  simple  discovery.  Penning,  Sit  down.  I  want 
to  tell  you." 

She  sat  down  at  the  presidential  desk,  and  pointed 
Penning  to  the  chair  stationed  for  the  president's 
caller.     Obediently  he  sat  down. 

"Listen,  Penning.     I  know  I  wasn't  born  to  make 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  109 

the  world  over  again.  At  the  same  time  I  'd  be  a 
worthless  ruin  if  I  didn't  do  the  simple  things.  You 
know  what  I  mean,  even  if  this  does  sound  silly. 
You  know  we  treat  lots  of  people  as  if  they  were 
horses.  There  's  Brannie.  I  've  never  been  decent 
to  her.  Just  treated  her  like  a  horse.  There  she  's 
been,  right  beside  me  nearly  all  my  life;  and  I  've 
never  done  a  single  thing  to  help  her  along  in  the 
world.  And  really,  there  's  a  lot  to  the  woman.  I  'm 
certainly  not  going  to  treat  her  as  a  servant  any  more. 
The  other  day  she  gave  me  an  insight  into  her  life. 
Why,  it  was  like  looking  into  another  world.  Not  a 
bright  world  either.  She 's  bright  enough.  Don't 
you  let  me  catch  you  being  rude  to  her  again!"  Miss 
Annabel  shook  a  small  fist,  which  Penning  quickly 
caught  and  kissed.  "She's  the  equal  of  anybody  in 
this  small  town,  let  me  tell  you.  She  has  taste,  and 
ideas,  and  a  lot  of  things.  And  I  'm  going  to  see  that 
the  town  finds  it  out,  so  there!" 

In  a  word,  Rossacre  had  nothing  to  offer  that  should 
not  be  humbly  and  immediately  at  the  disposal  of 
Brannie  before  that  winter  was  ended.  Miss  Annabel 
even  wished  that  Rossacre  might  rebel  to  a  certain 
extent,  that  she  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  showing 
that  it  was  dealing  with  Miss  Annabel  Gayland, 
forsooth ! 

Penning  sat  back  and  admired  the  girl  as  she  de- 
livered herself  of  these  impotent  manifestos.  That  is 
to  say,  he  admired  the  flushed  cheek,  the  tossed  hair, 
the  pretty  frown  of  determination,  the  stamping  of 
Miss  Annabel's  slim  foot  on  the  floor.  And  while  he 
admired  he  wondered  what  blow  of  disillusionment 
might  fall  upon  the  girl  when  she  came  to  meet  the 
mulish  prejudices  she  was  certain  to  encounter. 


110  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

He  wondered  especially  what  mischief  might  not 
follow  these  angel  intentions  and  efforts.  Things  that 
the  boys  at  The  Club  had  to  say  of  Mrs.  Branstane 
came  back  to  him.  He  could  read  the  story  of  im- 
position that  the  woman  had  probably  foisted  on  the 
innocent,  credulous,  generous  girl.  It  was  on  the  tip 
of  his  tongue  to  warn  her  of  the  mischievous  conse- 
quences that  follow  upon  the  best  of  endeavours  wasted 
in  the  wrong  quarter.  But  the  pretty  vision  of  altru- 
ism she  presented,  reinforced  by  the  vision  of  her 
person,  stayed  the  impulse. 

It  was,  moreover,  time  to  assemble  the  great  meet- 
ing;   time  to  hear  the  president's  address  of  welcome 

—  written  by  her  husband  the  Judge  —  and  to  hark 
to  the  learned  Governor.  And  the  voice  of  Pen- 
ning, as  he  introduced  the  great  man,  had  a  ring,  and 
his  wit  a  scintillation,  that  astonished  his  oldest 
acquaintances. 

All  that  being  finished,  came  the  election  of  officers 

—  behind  closed  doors,  as  a  matter  of  course,  after 
most  of  the  guests  had  departed.  A  mere  formality, 
as  it  had  always  been.  Only,  Mrs.  Gayland,  to  her 
utter  stupefaction,  so  that  she  scarcely  knew  she  was 
alive  upon  earth,  was  defeated  for  the  presidency. 

That  bright,  though  essentially  pushing,  Mrs.  Bemis 
was  chosen  instead. 

It  was  all  over,  quietly  and  definitely,  like  the  snap 
of  a  finger;  so  soon  that  the  members  themselves  were 
scarcely  aware  of  it;  so  soon  that  a  few  remaining 
guests  heard  of  it.  The  dozen  or  more  of  them  gasped 
at  the  news,  and  flew  away  to  corners  of  parlours  — 
of  drawing-rooms,  where  they  existed  —  where  it  was 
safe  to  prate  of  what  had  befallen. 


THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  111 

Thoughtfully  Annabel  and  Penning  sauntered  away 
on  foot.  "Poor  mother!"  was  all  that  occurred  to 
Annabel's  tongue. 

In  some  fashion  Mrs.  Gayland  got  into  her  motor 
with  her  lieutenant,  and  they  drove  home  —  Mrs. 
Branstane  to  seek  the  kitchen,  and  titter,  and  convey 
the  tidings  to  the  servants ;  Mrs.  Gayland  to  seek  her 
couch  and  moan. 

"Eh,  what  have  I  done,  to  be  so  mortified!  Ira, 
where  are  you?  Eh,  there 's  always  sump-thing. 
You  're  never  about  to  sympathize." 

But  the  Judge  had  stolen  away,  to  make  a  secret  of 
his  own  humiliation. 


BOOK  TWO 


CHAPTER   I 

SO  the  days  faltered  past,  escorting  Autumn  in  her 
myriad  guises  —  to  the  old  bringing  a  subtle 
melancholy,  a  hinting  of  the  final  Autumn;  to 
the  young  more  seasons  of  hunting  and  of  teas  and 
dancing;  to  the  Rev.  Arthur  Wiggin  bringing  inspira- 
tion for  a  poem  which  he  courteously  offered  to  the 
public  prints,  and  from  which  the  foregoing  beautiful 
thoughts  are  pilfered. 

To  the  "boys"  that  Autumn  brought  a  complicated 
emotion  which  one  of  them  translated  in  the  sorrowful 
reflection  that,  — 

"The  town  hasn't  seemed  the  same  since  Sherry 
Brookes  went  on  the  water-wagon." 

To  Mrs.  Branstane  Autumn  hinted  of  hushed 
preparations  for  the  budding  of  a  new  life,  and  the 
burial  of  the  old  one. 

Immediately  on  the  afternoon  of  Mrs.  Gayland's 
historic  discomfiture  the  emotions  of  Mrs.  Branstane 
required  an  outlet,  which  they  curiously  found  in  the 
kitchen. 

For  all  that  Brannie  had  won  over  Miss  Annabel 
with  a  tearful  recital  of  her  various  circumvallations 
in  the  kitchen,  the  kitchen  was  nevertheless,  one 
might  say,  the  gymnasium  where  she  nursed  her 
strength.  It  served  and  it  gratified  many  of  her  in- 
stincts —  her  love  of  supremacy,  the  joy  of  beaming 
down  upon  those  who  feared  her,  the  delight  of  having 
about  her  minds  that  she  might  impress.  Tirelessly 
she  bored  Berkeley  and  Etta  with  tales  of  her  one- 


116  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

time  grandeur  and  of  the  money  that  her  father  was 
worth.  Darkly  she  alluded  to  the  dramatic  episode 
which  had  reduced  her  to  the  menial  estate.  But 
oftenest  of  all  she  referred  to  the  twenty  thousand 
dollars  which  she  was  one  day  to  inherit. 

Servants,  as  all  employers  of  domestic  labour  know, 
will  be  servants;  which  is  to  say  that  now  and  again 
Jonathan  took  out  the  horses  and  the  Stanhope  for  a 
quiet  drive  with  Miss  McGuinness  what  was  cook  at 
the  Claversons';  now  and  again  Berkeley  broke  a 
piece  of  glass  or  china  —  and  these  things,  such  as 
she  detected,  Mrs.  Branstane  held  over  their  heads 
like  a  doom,  and  exacted  of  the  culprits  whatever  she 
liked  in  the  way  of  personal  service.  When  this 
failed  she  kept  them  under  her  thumb  by  means  of 
small  loans.  In  fine,  they  were  slaves  to  her  will, 
cheated  of  their  full  earnings,  and  yet  unable  to 
give  notice  and  leave  by  reason  of  their  endless  obli- 
gations to  her. 

There  was  even  a  touch  of  jealousy  in  her  persecu- 
tion. Never  had  Mrs.  Branstane  reconciled  herself  to 
the  fact  that  Etta  the  cook  and  Berkeley  the  butler 
had  been  hired  primarily  for  their  talents  at  enter- 
tainment, for  such  was  the  taste  of  Judge  Gayland  in 
his  servants.  It  was  rather  incidental  than  otherwise 
that  Berkeley  had  turned  out  an  uncommon  fine  man 
about  the  dining-room,  and  Etta  a  superlative  cook. 
Berkeley  was  a  bona  fide  Briton  whom  the  Judge  had 
captured  ten  years  before  in  Philadelphia  and  had 
brought  home  as  a  rare  find,  chiefly  for  the  rich  Mid- 
land dialect  that  he  spoke,  or  affected,  when  he  dis- 
covered how  it  caught  on  with  the  genial  and  generous 
Judge.  'Enson  he  gave  as  his  name,  which  the  Judge 
promptly  translated  into  Berkeley,  and  elegantly  pro- 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  117 

nounced  as  Barclay.  Etta,  a  nondescript,  had  won  her 
billet  in  the  main  on  account  of  the  malleability  of 
her  name.  Originally  she  said  it  had  been  Etienne 
Joliebriand,  in  which  the  Judge  had  seen  at  once  a 
more  picturesque  Humphrietta  Jellybread,  and  hired 
her  accordingly.  And  they  received  almost  the  wages 
of  Mrs.  Branstane. 

Hence  it  was  that,  in  the  kitchen,  Mrs.  BranstEine 
was  driven  back  more  and  more  upon  her  mythical 
inheritance.  Beyond  the  kitchen  door  she  lived  in  the 
future;  beside  the  sink  she  lived  in  the  past.  And 
endlessly  she  bored  them.  Often,  wheft  she  was  una- 
able  to  tease  or  tempt  or  invite  Etta  or  Betty  or 
Delphine  to  her  room,  she  would,  in  lieu  of  any  other 
expedient,  order  them  there,  for  the  sake  of  having  an 
audience  in  these  reviews  of  her  former  magnificence. 
When  they  found  some  excuse  beyond  even  her  orders, 
such  as  tasks  set  them  by  Miss  Annabel  or  Mrs.  Gay- 
land,  Mrs.  Branstane  would  visit  them  in  their  own 
rooms,  and  help  them  there  with  what  "tasks"  they 
were  clever  enough  to  trump  up  for  the  occasion. 
Certainly  she  imposed  upon  their  good  nature,  and 
bullied  them,  until  at  last  even  they  came  to 
understand  her  and  manipulate  her.  Learned  how 
to  throw  out  sops  to  her  inordinate  vanity. 

"And  is  yer  fayther  that  near  to  his  grave  then?" 
Etta  would  say. 

"Etta!" 

"Yazzum,  yazzum!  Beggin'  yer  pardon,  mum,  and 
no  offense  intended!" 

And  then  Berkeley:  —  "'Twill  be  a  fine  mansion, 
that  it  will,  mum,  when  it  comes  into  the  hands  of 
yer  worship,  mum.  That  I  've  said  many  a  time, 
mum.     Haven't  I,  Etta?" 


118  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"That  ye  have,  Mr.  Barclay!  And  haven't  I  said 
as  much?" 

"We-ell,  who  knows?"  Mrs.  Branstane  would 
approve.  "It's  quite  possible  that  things  may 
happen  here.  If  I  should  keep  on,  it  may  not  be 
always  as  I  am.  Indeed,  I  often  wonder  that  I  've 
bothered  to  be  here  so  long  —  that  is,  as  I  am 
now." 

"So  I've  often  said  to  Etta,  mum.  It's  no  place 
for  the  likes  of  yew,  mum.  You  as  ought  to  be  the 
'ead  of  the  'ouse,  mum." 

These  things  Mrs.  Branstane  enjoyed,  as  any  artist 
revels  in  the  exercise  of  his  powers.  What  matter 
that,  the  moment  she  had  departed  from  the  scene, 
Etta  would  giggle, 

"Now,  ain  't  she  the  beauty!"  and  stuff  her  apron 
into  her  mouth  to  stifle  the  laughter  that  might  bring 
back  Mrs.  Branstane  and  retribution. 

"Beauty  she  is!"  Berkeley  would  assent,  when 
Mrs.  Branstane's  step  had  retreated  to  a  safe  distance. 
"Han'  that  old  green  dress  o'  her'n!  I  wonder  that 
her  grandmother  didn't  will  her  something  on  the 
brown,  too!" 

"And  her  fayther  worth  his  twinty  thousand!"  .  .  . 

For  all  that,  Mrs.  Branstane's  father  had  obliged 
his  daughter  with  his  death  at  last,  not  forgetting  to 
will  her  quietly  his  twenty  thousand.  Hence  it  was 
that  Mrs.  Branstane  now  paraded  about  the  Gay- 
land  house  the  bearer  of  a  fixed  and  placid  smile. 
Closer  than  ever  to  the  ruddy  verged  her  plump 
cheeks.  More  pointedly  than  ever  she  conveyed  the 
impression  of  exuberant  health.  Half  of  her  forty- 
two  years  seemed  to  fall  away  from  her.  Her  speech 
took  on  a  note  of  conscious  elegance.     Something  of 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  119 

a  jaunty  and  sportive  spirit  crept  into  her  tread.  Mrs. 
Branstane  was  on  the  upward  stair. 

So  much  so  that  Miss  Annabel  herself  promptly 
remarked  it  —  and  naturally  ascribed  it  to  the  wo- 
man's satisfaction  at  this  new  prospect  of  life  laid 
before  her  by  Miss  Annabel. 

"Guess  we  're  not  a  bit  happy  these  days,  are  we!" 
she  said  to  Mrs.  Branstane,  twining  an  arm  about 
her  waist.  "Guess  we  aren't  getting  on  a  bit,  are 
we!" 

"You  are  a  dear  girl,  Annabel,"  Mrs.  Branstane 
granted,  though  with  an  air  of  condescension  that 
Annabel  generously  set  down  to  the  awkwardness  of 
a  beginner  at  social  usages. 

What  Judge  Gayland,  had  he  heard  that  colloquy, 
would  have  suffered  may  be  imagined.  The  power 
that  he  feared  might  "begin"  on  Annabel  his  daugh- 
ter had  made  a  fast  friend! 

And  the  two  new  friends  were  the  only  members 
of  the  Gayland  household  able  to  muster  a  smile  in 
those  days  —  Annabel  because  smiling  was  a  neces- 
sary condition  to  her  existence,  and  Mrs.  Branstane 
for  a  good  reason  already  set  forth.  The  others  went 
about  their  daily  business  without  that  facial  luxury. 
For  scarcely  had  that  dread  bolt  of  the  Club  election 
struck  at  Mrs.  Gayland,  when  her  mansion  shook 
under  another  proof  of  this  hideous  propensity  of  one 
thing  to  lead  to  another. 

This  was  when  they  were  all  treated  to  the  calamity 
of  an  unsolicited  call. 

On  a  Saturday  afternoon,  long  after  the  period 
appropriate  to  a  call  responsive  to  an  invitation  to 
the  Gayland  dance,  and  at  an  awkward  moment  when 
the  Judge  and  Mrs.   Gayland  were  preparing  them- 


120  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

selves  against  their  regular  Saturday  afternoon  drive, 
the  bell  at  the  front  door  rang. 

At  sound  of  it  four  frowns  were  frowned  by  the 
three  Gaylands  and  by  Mrs.  Branstane. 

From  the  door  of  her  dressing-room  Annabel  whis- 
pered, "For  mercy's  sake,  mother,  who  can  it  be? 
An  agent?" 

"Now,  what  can  that  person  want!"  Mrs.  Gayland 
moaned  in  her  "boodeer,"  as  she  called  it.  "E-eh, 
there's  always  sump-thing!" 

Hurriedly,  and  none  too  patiently,  Berkeley  flung 
down  the  flannel  cloth  he  was  lazily  applying  to  the 
silver  for  dinner,  drew  on  a  fresh  white  coat,  sought  his 
tray  in  the  pantry,  and  —  leisurely  —  answered  the  bell. 

Leaning  cautiously  out  of  their  several  doors  front- 
ing the  gallery  above,  the  three  Gaylands  overheard 
the  conference  below. 

"Is  Mrs.  Gayland  to  home.^" 

"She  is,  madam." 

"I  desire  to  call." 

Even  Mrs.  Branstane,  from  her  door  on  the  floor 
above,  had  overheard  and  joined  her  titter,  even  as 
she  had  joined  her  frown,  to  the  general  sentiment  of 
the  household.  Mrs.  Branstane,  by  the  way,  would 
have  been  found,  if  anyone  had  noticed,  in  a  brand- 
new  gauzy  white  deshabille,  purchased  only  the  day 
before. 

In  a  moment,  through  the  agency  of  Delphine, 
Berkeley  had  delivered  the  card  of  Mrs.  Walker  P. 
Landis,  and  the  three  Gaylands  fell  to  excited  whispers. 

"Now  what  does  that  woman  want!"  said  Mrs. 
Gayland. 

"Tell  her  we  don't  need  any  more  soap  just  now," 
said  naughty  Miss  Annabel. 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  121 

The  Judge,  early  home  for  his  Saturday  amusement 
with  his  nervous  high-steppers,  and  with  still  more 
nervous  Mrs.  Gayland,  left  off  his  shaving  and  poked 
through  the  curtained  doorway  of  his  dressing-room  a 
countenance  doubly  comic  in  its  lather  and  its  amaze- 
ment. 

"Who  is  it,  Ida?" 

"  0-oh,  it 's  that  Mrs.  Landis." 

"Is  it?" 

Not  two  words,  nor  two  million,  could  convey  the 
exquisite  sorrow  of  the  Judge  at  that  bit  of  informa- 
tion. 

"Yess,  it  is!     And  it's  so  provoking!" 

To  Mrs.  Gayland  the  prospect  of  interesting  a  com- 
plete stranger  in  the  phenomena  of  life  was  appalling 
enough  in  itself.  What  was  worse,  even  she  could 
perceive  in  this  intrusion  a  subtle  assault  from  a 
crass  outsider  upon  the  social  citadel  of  Rossacre. 
And  once  more  Mrs.  Gayland  pronounced,  "E-eh, 
there's  always  sump-thing  in  this  world!"  and  sank 
into  a  chair  prostrated  before  this  sudden  necessity 
for  thought  and  decision.     "What  is  a  person  to  do!" 

''Do?  Confound  Mrs.  Landis!  Tell  her  to  go  to 
the  devil.  Tell  her  we  're  engaged.  Jonathan  's  ready 
with  the  horses  right  now." 

"0-oh,"  —  Mrs.  Gayland's  eyes  and  hands  all 
sought  the  ceiling  —  "I  suppose  we'll  have  to  be 
nice  to  her  now  —  now  that  she  's  here.  Otherwise 
she  '11  talk  about  us.  But  what  do  you  suppose  she 
wants?  I  thought  we  were  rid  of  her.  She  's  never 
troubled  us  before.  It  all  comes  of  your  asking  that 
Landis  man  to  the  dance,  Ira.  I  warned  you  of  what 
would  happen." 

"Well,"    the   Judge    cut    in,    "where 's    Annabel?" 


122  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Always,  in  time  of  trouble,  Annabel  was  his  very 
present  help. 

Hence  it  was  that  Delphine  was  dispatched  to 
quicken  Annabel  at  her  toilette,  and  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  required  for  Mrs.  Gayland;  and  the  household, 
like  an  oyster,  did  its  best  to  make  a  pearl  of  this 
intruder. 

The  tax  on  their  good  nature  was  severe  upon  all  of 
them,  but  heaviest  of  all  upon  the  Judge  himself.  An 
unhappy  —  because  a  reflective  —  afternoon  was  that 
for  him.  All  the  earthly  ills  that  it  had  always  cost 
him  dearly  to  forget,  were  ushered  in  afresh  by  that 
woman's  ring  at  his  door.  He  was  almost  as  long  at 
his  toilet  as  Annabel  at  her  own.  And  they  issued 
from  their  doors,  on  opposite  sides  of  the  gallery, 
together. 

"Oho!"  sang  the  girl  at  sight  of  him,  and  pointed 
an  accusing  if  filial  finger.  "You  purposely  dawdled 
through  your  prinking,  till  you  thought  the  caller 
might  be  gone!" 

There  was  a  swift  patter  of  feet  round  the  "forty 
yard  dash,"  or  the  "Y.  M,  C.  A.  gymnasium,"  as 
Annabel  playfully  designated  that  gallery.  At  the 
end  of  the  pretty  sprint  there  occurred  a  kiss. 

"Father,  I  caught  you.  There  was  a  sad  look  on 
your  face  when  you  came  out  of  your  door.    You  — '* 

"Nonsense,  daughter!" 

"You  thought  you  had  got  rid  of  it  so  cleverly. 
But  — " 

"Nonsense!" 

"—I  saw  it!" 

"Foil-loll!" 

"Now,  don't  contradict!"  Here  the  feminine 
speaker    held    a    feminine    hand    over    a    mumbling 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  123 

masculine  mouth.  "Tell  me,  father,  aren't  you  well? 
You  've  looked  so  weary,  and  worried,  of  late.  You 
used  to  be  so  sweet  and  plump."  She  pinched  his 
cheeks.  "And  your  lovely  hair  —  that  I  want  so 
much  for  my  own!  — "  She  lifted  a  tuft  of  it  —  "is 
getting  a  —  a  little  thin."  In  sad  reproach  Annabel 
wagged  her  head.  "Tell  me,  Daddy,  aren't  you  — 
aren't  you  happy.^" 

"Little  goose!  Of  course  not!  How  can  I  be  happy 
when  my  drive  is  all  spoiled!     It 's  all  — " 

"No,  you're  not  all  right.  Judge  Gayland.  It 
wasn't  a  frown  on  your  face,  but  a  sad  look.  You  've 
not  been  in  your  old  high  spirits  for  —  oh,  ever  so 
long.  Nobody  in  this  house  has  been.  Mother  looks 
worn,  and  the  servants  are  perfect  dragons  —  except 
poor,  patient  Auntie  Bran,  poor  thing." 

"Oh,  fiddle-sticks!" 

"I  know  what 's  the  matter!  You  are  over- worked! 
'that 's  what 's  the  matter  of  you.'"    Annabel  quoted. 

"Yes!"  And  the  Judge  surprised  her  with  the  bit- 
ter note  in  his  gale  of  laughter.  "Yes,  I  am  —  I  have 
been  rather  over-worked!" 

"Well,  you  needn't  accuse  me!"  Another  kiss  was 
recorded  in  Gayland  history.  "But  anyway,  what- 
ever you  meant,  I  '11  forgive  you  —  provided  you 
promise  me  that  you  '11  stop  work  for  a  while,  father?" 

"Oh,  no;    it's  im — " 

"No,  it's  not  impossible.  Trot  us  all  down  to 
Palm  Beach  for  a  month!  Promise  me,  anyway, 
that  you  '11  go.  Resign  your  old  Drudgeship.  You  've 
had  it  long  enough  —  just  ten  years.  What  does  a 
big  man  like  my  Daddy  want  of  a  little  toy  like  that! 
It 's  no  honour  now  —  not  to  the  likes  of  you!" 

There,   however,   since  it  was  high  time  they  de- 


124  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

scended,  the  suasion  ceased,  without  having  come 
to  Annabel's  desired  conclusion.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  stair  Miss  Annabel's  blue-grey  eyes  opened  widely 
in  surprise  at  another  visitor,  of  her  own  —  for  all 
his  earthly  riding  costume  a  heavenly  visitor  to  her, 
who  had  proved  already  his  heavenly  descent  by  the 
patience  of  his  half-hour  wait  for  Miss  Annabel's 
company  on  a  canter  over  the  late  September  hills. 
There,  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair,  in  the  wide  hall, 
was  more  banter  and  laughter;  and  then  the  Judge, 
very  archly,  and  with  elaborate  ostentation,  left  his 
daughter  and  her  visitor  together,  and  himself  with- 
drew. 

Gingerly  skirting  the  drawing-room,  though  peril- 
ously close  to  it  and  its  human  content  of  his  wife 
and  her  caller,  the  Judge  overheard  a  bit  of  the  issues 
there  under  discussion.  By  then  Mrs.  Landis  had 
long  passed  the  official  errand  of  her  appearance, 
which  was  to  announce  to  the  chairwoman  of  the 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  of  St.  Mark's  parish  church  the 
sensational  discovery  of  vermin  in  no  less  a  place  than 
the  sacred  edifice  itself! 

"So  that's  what  they  are  wearing  now?"  The 
Judge  recognised  the  voice  of  his  faithful  spouse. 
And  to  his  infinite  disgust  it  was  amiable  and  ani- 
mated. 

"Oh,  everything  this  Fall  is  big  and  tilted.  You 
know,  I  've  just  been  down  to  New  York  and  I  'm 
supposed  to  know.  Everything  at  Wanamaker's  is 
big  and  tilted.    Landis  just  dotes  on  this  year's  hats!" 

"Damn  Landis!  And  damn  hats!"  the  Judge 
growled  to  himself,  and  tiptoed  through  the  library 
to  the  dining-room,  noiselessly  closing  behind  him  the 
heavy  hangings. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  125 

In  the  dining-room  he  was  startled,  and  by  no 
means  overjoyed,  to  come  upon  Mrs.  Branstane  at 
her  early  evening  business  of  laying  out  the  silver  for 
dinner. 

"Well,  sir!"  she  greeted  him  grimly.  "I  suppose 
you  know  what  that  means!"  With  a  fork  poised 
in  her  hand  she  pointed  to  the  drawing-room  adjacent, 
and  spoke  in  the  drawl  that  always  portended  in  her 
the  mood  of  battle. 

The  Judge  grimaced,  by  way  of  acknowledging  the 
observation. 

"I  have  no  time  myself  for  that  freak  in  there!" 
Again  Mrs.  Branstane  jerked,  this  time  her  head,  in 
the  direction  of  the  drawing-room.  As  for  the  Judge, 
he  leaned  helplessly  against  the  wainscot  and  steeled 
himself  to  listen,  sith  escape  was  impossible.  And 
Mrs.  Branstane  continued.  Always  it  gave  Mrs. 
Barnstane  acute  pleasure  to  continue.  "That  woman 
reminds  me  of  a  sparrow,  with  her  eternal  twitter. 
Only  a  sparrow  is  more  grammatical.  .  .  .  She  says 
she  only  dropped  in  for  a  minute  on  business.  The 
schemer!  She  's  been  planning  it  for  a  week.  I  know 
her.  She  '  done  it  o'  purpose'  —  that 's  the  way 
she'd  say  it!"  In  her  mellow  and,  when  she  wished 
it,  not  unpleasing  contralto,  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed. 
And  perforce,  at  the  happy  characterisation,  the 
Judge  was  obliged  to  laugh  with  her.  Possibly  he 
hoped,  by  this  ready  encouragement  of  laughter,  to 
lead  the  discourse  into  pleasanter  paths. 

"Silly  fool!"  Mrs.  Branstane  said  on.  "With 
her  insane  desire  to  get  on  in  the  world!  She  has  no 
pride.  But  her  being  here  is  no  sign  of  how  high  up 
she  's  got.  It 's  a  sign  of  something  very  different.  .  .  . 
You  know  very  well,  my  fine  gentleman,  what  that 


126  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

something  different  is.  ...  I  told  you  this  long  ago 
to  look  out  for  that  man  Landis.  He  's  a  smart  one. 
Look  at  the  way  he  's  got  on  —  president  of  his  own 
bank,  and  all  that.  Why  haven't  you  invited  him 
long  ago  to  your  fine  doings?  He  could  have  helped 
you.  Any  woman  would  have  been  clever  enough 
to  see  that.  You  might  have  known  he  'd  have  it 
in  for  you,  after  the  way  you  've  snubbed  him  — 
and  his  wife  besides.  Now  you  've  brought  things 
to  a  pass  where  that  woman  can  come  here  and  brazen 
it  out  where  she  knows  bhe  isn't  wanted.  It 's  a  sign 
of  just  what  you  've  come  down  to,  that 's  what  it 
is.  I  '11  bet  Landis  himself  put  her  up  to  it.  That 
man  knows  well  enough  how  your  affairs  stand.  You 
can  be  sure  of  that.  And  now  your  mistakes  sit  in 
your  parlour  and  mock  at  your  wife!" 

"By  George,  Nellie!  You've  got  a  perfect  genius 
for  — " 

The  Judge  stared  positive  admiration  at  his  duenna. 
Always  he  found  himself  detecting  the  fact  —  and  it 
accounted  for  much  of  his  passive  submission  to  the 
woman  —  that  though  she  was  crude  and  undisci- 
plined, she  had  powers  of  mind  that  surpassed  his 
own. 

"0-oh,  yess!  I've  got  a  perfect  genius,  have 
I?"  Mrs.  Branstane  dropped  the  fork  and  fairly 
charged  upon  him.  "You  have  to  acknowledge  your- 
self, sometimes,  that  I  'm  worth  something  better 
than  slaving  here  with  dish-towels  and  dusters  for 
you,  eh?  Where  would  you  have  been,  long  ago,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  me  to  run  this  place  and  watch 
over  your  affairs?     Answer  me  that!" 

The  Judge  whisked  about  and  strode  to  the  broad 
casement  window.     There  he  laughed. 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  127 

"And  who  else  is  there  about  here  that  can  do  it? 
Answer  me  that,  too!"  And  once  more  the  Judge 
whisked  about,  at  the  challenge  and  the  sneer.  "What 
haven't  I  done  for  you  that  — " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  Nellie!"  he  wearily  broke  in. 
"Haven't  we  settled  all  that  long  ago?" 

"How  have  we  settled  it,  I  'd  like  to  know!  What 
have  you  ever  done  for  me,  let  me  ask!  You've 
done  nothing  but  admit  —  admit  —  that  /  really  have 
done  quite  a  lot  for  you!"  Mrs.  Branstane's  whole 
person  was  quivering  with  rage;  her  eyes,  in  their 
deep  mahogany  brown,  blazed;  her  cheeks  were 
puffed  and  deepened  in  hue;  her  jaw  protruded  and 
seemed  to  grind  the  words  that  she  spoke. 

"Oh,  yes!"  the  Judge  sighed;  "you've  done  a 
lot!     You've  made  my  life  a  perfect — " 

"A  perfect  hell,  eh?     So  then,  you — " 

"Oh,"  the  Judge  whirled  away  as  he  said  it,  "I  've 
nothing  to  say!" 

"You've  never  got  anything  to  say!     You — " 

"I  beg  you  not  to  shout.  Not  that  I  care  for  my- 
self, of  course!  But  the  neighbours  might  form  a  poor 
opinion  even  of  you!" 

"Don't  worry  about  me!  You've  never  wasted 
much  of  your  precious  thought  on  me.  Lord  knows! 
You  never  did  do  anything  but  give  yourself  as  good 
a  time  as  your  money  could  buy.  .  .  .  And  goodness 
knows  how  much  you  've  bought  and  haven't  paid 
for.  How  much  you  've  spent  behind  my  back!  .  .  . 
And  such  things  as  you  buy  to  satisfy  your  lordly 
self!  What  do  you  know  about  art?  And  yet  last 
week  you  bought  that  thing!"  Mrs.  Branstane  swept 
her  shapely  arm,  bared  to  the  elbow,  toward  a  reason- 
ably good  painting  of  fruit  and  flowers  newly  hung 


128  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

upon  the  dining-room  wall.  "Now  what  did  you  get 
that  thing  for,  when  you  know  perfectly  well  how  your 
affairs  stand?    I  told  you  not  to  buy  it." 

"That,"  said  the  Judge,  "is  why  I  bought  it." 

"There  it  is!"  Mrs.  Branstane  placed  her  hands 
upon  her  hips,  even  glancing  down  to  see  that  they 
were  gracefully  disposed,  and  measured  Judge  Gay- 
land  as  if  he  were  a  puzzling  curiosity  whom  she 
might  never  hope  to  fathom. 

By  then  Mrs.  Branstane  took  herself  to  be  a  quali- 
fied critic  of  humanity.  She  was  nearer  to  power, 
nearer  to  being  herself,  nearer  to  getting  her  legacy. 
Even  people  on  the  street,  long  accustomed  to  her  land- 
mark green  dress,  turned  now  to  stare  at  the  crisp 
browns  and  greys  that  began  to  frame  her  rich 
colouring  and  her  vigorous  figure.  In  Mrs.  Gayland's 
company  she  had  begun  to  take  on  a  superiority  that 
to  Mrs.  Gayland  was  still  another  of  the  annoyingly 
inscrutable  institutions  of  Providence.  And  the 
Judge's  own  life  had  become  less  supportable  than 
ever,  with  this  greatly  increased  willingness  toward 
advice  on  the  part  of  his  handmaiden.  Advice  that 
had  never  been  grudgingly  withheld.  Lord  knew! 
The  one  difference  was  that  it  was  now  a  little  more 
loftily  expressed. 

"Well!"  Mrs.  Branstane  caught  her  breath  for  a 
fresh  assault.  So  obvious,  so  paramount,  was  the 
idiocy  of  this  man  that  it  fairly  baffled  her.  She 
sorted  a  few  spoons  in  order  to  sort  over  a  few 
thoughts  before  she  proceeded.  "So  that's  why 
you  bought  it!  .  .  .  Well!  Where  it 's  all  going  to 
end  is  a  mystery  to  me.  .  .  .  Or,  perhaps,  it  isn't 
such  a  mystery  after  all!"  She  laughed.  "And  it's 
all  because  you  never  listened  to  my  advice  that  — " 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  129 

"I  could  scarcely  listen  to  all  of  it!  Faugh!"  The 
Judge  made  to  move  away  and  escape.  "This  thing 
sickens  me!" 

"That 's  exactly  it!"  Mrs.  Branstane  fairly  spirted 
the  words,  in  order  to  utter  them  in  time  to  hold  him. 
"That's  you  all  the  time,  Ira  Gayland!  That  's  the 
very  thing  in  you  that  has  ruined  you!" 

''Ruined  me?"  Frightened  at  the  word,  precisely 
as  Mrs.  Branstane  desired,  the  Judge  paused  with 
his  hand  on  the  curtain.  "Ruined?  How  you 
talk!" 

"Yes,  ruined!  I  said  ruined!  There  it  is!  You 
never  stand  up  to  things  as  they  are.  As  long  as  I 
can  remember  you,  back  in  your  boyhood  days,  Ira 
Gayland,  you  've  been  a  coward.  As  soon  as  you 
get  in  a  tight  place,  where  a  little  effort  is  needed, 
you  say,  'Faugh,  this  thing  sickens  me!'  And  then 
you  run.  Run!  Run,  run,  run!  You  've  done  that 
about  as  long  as  you  can.  How  much  farther  have 
you  got  to  go?  Answer  me  that.  Where  are  you 
going  to  land?  Answer  me  that.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  when  your  term  runs  out?  And  for  all 
your  bragging,  you  need  the  salary,  and  you  know  it. 
And  how  are  you  going  to  get  elected  again?  What 
do  they  all  think  of  you  in  this  town?  What  sort  of 
Judge  have  you  made!  .  .  .  Oh,  all  your  life,  Ira 
Gayland  —  and  for  all  the  grand  show  you  've  laid 
on  —  you  've  been  a  failure.  A  failure,  and  you  know 
it.  Just  see  where  you  are!  You  've  ruined  yourself 
with  these  silly  extravagances.  Ruined  yourself,  and 
ruined  your  family." 

"And  haven't"  —  the  Judge  cut  in  —  "and  haven't 
saved  anything  for  you  to  get  hold  of,  eh,  Nellie?" 
he    finally    retorted;     for,    sometimes,    when    he    was 


130  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

stung  to  an  extraordinary  degree  of  desperation,  he 
would  stand  up  to  his  tormentor. 

The  world,  it  so  happens,  has  a  sad  way  of  exacting 
payment  for  every  particle  of  fun  that  it  tosses  out 
so  freely.  You  will  dance  and  take  your  pleasure, 
and  go  on  down  the  pathway  of  your  days,  pleased 
with  yourself  for  having  disported  so  cunningly.  Yet, 
on  a  day  least  expected,  your  late  piper  will  step  up 
beside  you  and  present  his  bill.  It  may  be  soon,  it 
may  be  long  in  coming.  And  there  are  those  that  have 
danced  and  have  dodged  the  piper  too.  The  rest  of 
us,  not  so  clever,  and  perhaps  more  honest,  are  re- 
quired to  settle. 

Judge  Gayland  was  settling.  Poor  devil,  when  hg^ 
he  done  anything  but  settle!  Constantly  he  put  to 
himself,  in  the  night,  or  in  moments  like  this,  that 
question.  Considering  the  small  portion  of  amuse- 
ment he  had  ever  got  out  of  life,  for  all  the  effort  and 
expense  it  had  cost  him,  he  was  paying  a  cruelly 
high  price. 

"Saved  anything  for  me?"  Mrs.  Branstane  had 
instantly  retorted  to  his  sarcasm. 

But  the  Judge  scarcely  heard  her.  Once  more  he 
had  moved  toward  the  window,  and  stood  there,  with 
his  hands  behind  his  back,  under  the  tails  of  his 
coat,  which  he  swayed  to  keep  Mrs.  Branstane  deluded 
with  the  belief  that  he  listened  and  weakly  sur- 
rendered again  to  her  improving  lecture. 

Once  more  she  had  called  up  his  boyhood,  and  his 
own  memory  of  it  rose  again  in  review. 


CHAPTER   II 

SO  the  Judge's  eye  roved  slightly  beyond  the 
Claversons'  lawn  next  door,  where  the  spots  of 
salvia  were  still  bloody  red,  and  the  hydrangea 
began  to  take  on  its  Fall  blushes,  and  a  flock  of  be- 
lated robins  made  gluttons  of  themselves  among  the 
worms  driven  to  the  surface  by  the  rain  of  the  night 
before. 

Beyond  the  Claverson  lawn  he  was  seeing  again 
Hoytville,  the  pretty  little  village  in  a  western  corner 
of  the  State.  And  his  mother,  belle  of  the  place,  who 
had  died  in  his  early  youth;  and  his  father,  royster- 
ing  scapegrace,  who  had  lived  only  long  enough  to 
embitter  the  boy  with  recollections  of  drunken  dis- 
grace. The  father's  death,  at  last,  in  a  drinking  bout, 
and  his  own  adoption  by  the  village  druggist  and 
postmaster  —  father  of  Nellie.  Nellie,  then  an  in- 
fant in  arms,  impressing  Hoytville  chiefly  as  a  stout 
pair  of  lungs  and  a  deal  of  what  her  father  was 
pleased  to  call  spirit. 

School  days,  later;  till  he  was  nineteen;  and  the 
evening  when  he  left  the  Jones  family  and  the  town 
—  with  such  a  curious  cause  behind  his  expulsion. 
Nellie,  thirteen  then,  and  uncontrollably  wilful,  had 
acquired  for  him  that  far  from  sisterly  affection  which 
her  mother  thought  to  cure  by  sending  him  away  to 
a  clerkship  in  the  neighbouring  town  of  Waynesburg. 

Only  to  intensify,  by  his  dismissal,  the  fervour  of 
affection  in  the  young  Julietl 


132  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

It  all  came  back  to  the  Judge.  Nellie's  visits  to 
an  aunt  in  that  neighbouring  town,  with  a  frequency 
that  her  mother  tried  every  expedient  in  vain  to 
suppress.  Even  in  the  face  of  sterner  discourage- 
ments Nellie's  visits  had  persisted. 

For  by  then  the  boy  Ira  had  wearied  of  the  perse- 
cution of  her  attentions.  In  the  flight  of  the  days  he 
had  arrived  at  the  one  great  chance  which  is  said  to 
visit  every  life.  Finding  a  place  in  the  office,  as  in 
the  affections,  of  a  Waynesburg  lawyer,  the  boy  Ira 
appeared  to  have  found  his  forte.  Latent  ambition 
was  stirred  in  him  —  and  likewise  vanity.  As  sur- 
prising new  prospects  opened  before  him,  there  quickly 
came  to  Ira  all  that  wisdom  and  foresight  which  are 
common  to  nineteen.  The  village  of  Waynesburg 
came  to  look  puny  in  his  eyes,  and  the  social  station 
of  Nellie  Jones  very  ordinary.  Her  pestilential  pre- 
dilection for  him,  which  had  become  the  stock  jest 
of  the  community,  at  last  annoyed  Ira  so  acutely 
that  he  took  steps  of  his  own  toward  its  suppression. 

That  is,  he  began  to  pay  elaborate  attention  to 
other  girls  in  the  town.  In  his  misguided  way  he 
thought  to  be  rid  of  the  Jones  girl  by  a  redoubled 
interest  in  these  others. 

Nellie's  preference  for  him  stood  out  only  the  more 
marked  and  unalterable. 

There,  at  that  point,  Ira  had  first  uncovered  the 
trait  which,  he  could  see  now  —  indeed  Nellie  herself 
had  just  forcibly  reminded  him  —  had  chiefly  played 
havoc  with  his  life.     His  tendency  to  take  to  flight. 

For  one  night  the  boy  Ira  fled  Waynesburg  too,  and 
forsook  the  lawyer  who  loved  and  befriended  him, 
and  the  girl  who  had  made  herself  such  an  insup- 
portable nuisance. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  133 

Philadelphia,  then.  There,  at  first,  Ira  had  met 
with  few  friends,  but  with  many  vicissitudes.  Yet  the 
demand  for  young  men  after  the  Civil  War  soon  put 
his  nimble  wits  at  a  premium  with  a  firm  of  lawyers, 
in  whose  esteem,  as  in  whose  service,  he  rapidly  rose. 

Only  to  arouse  the  other  of  his  two  dominant  and 
fatal  traits. 

In  pride  of  his  progress  he  had  written  back  to 
Hoytville  and  to  Nellie,  in  a  letter  much  more  boast- 
ful than  politic,  fuller  of  gratitude  than  of  tact.  The 
druggist  Jones  was  highly  gratified  —  and  so  was  his 
daughter  Nellie,  who  promptly  ran  away  from  home 
to  join  her  Ira  in  Philadelphia,  where  she  was  certain 
to  be  more  inconvenient  than  ever  to  the  rising  boy. 
And  the  consequences  were  that,  in  desperation,  the 
boy  saved  his  prospects  and  his  peace  a  second  time 
in  a  reluctant  but  a  needful  flight. 

Nellie,  left  behind,  disconsolate,  in  Philadelphia, 
had  become  a  domestic,  according  to  her  own  vera- 
cious story;  and  sometime,  in  the  four  or  five  years 
that  had  ensued,  she  sought  release  from  servitude  in 
marriage  with  a  man  whose  name  she  gave  or  in- 
vented as  Branstane.  That  worthy  had  helped  her 
to  an  imposing  name,  indeed;  but  the  only  other 
thing  he  had  left  her,  in  a  desert  of  unhappy  memories, 
was  the  solitary  oasis  of  his  death. 

Ten  years  more,  and,  safely  retired  to  Rossacre, 
Ira  had  seen  himself,  more  by  luck  than  by  solid 
endeavour,  a  leading  personage  —  prosperous  lawyer 
—  fortunate  investor  —  elected  Judge  of  the  Common 
Pleas  Court  —  and  social  leader  of  the  town,  which 
pleased  him  most  of  all.  At  appropriate  intervals 
had  come  his  marriage,  the  birth  of  his  daughter,  and 
the  building  of  his  handsome  mansion. 


134  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

And  finally  had  come  one  of  the  penalties  of  rising 
fame.  On  the  day  when  she  first  saw  his  name  in 
a  newspaper  —  "rising  young  lawyer,"  and  gJl  that  — 
Mrs.  Nellie  Branstane  once  more  set  forth  in  pursuit 
of  Ira.  Five  or  ten  years  of  stern  toil  had  somewhat 
subdued  the  formidable  Nellie.  Yet  Gayland  vividly 
recalled  his  sensations  when,  after  travelling  much 
of  the  way  to  him  on  foot,  she  had  reached  Rossacre 
and  presented  herself  at  his  office. 

Weary,  worn,  and  humbled,  she  had  seemed  in- 
nocuous enough.  Yet  years  before  the  consequences 
came,  Gayland  had  every  opportunity  to  forecast 
what  would  come  of  her  presence  in  his  house.  Poor 
beggar,  impressed  by  Nellie's  moving  account  of  his 
debt  to  her  family,  impressed  by  the  more  touching 
story  of  the  miseries  she  had  undergone  because  of 
him  since  then,  and  fooled  by  her  humble  mien,  he 
had  weakened  generously  and  given  her  a  place  and 
a  task  in  his  home.  Feeling  safe  in  his  exalted  posi- 
tion, he  had  thought  it  rather  a  handsome  act  and  a 
credit  to  his  character. 

So,  in  differing  senses,  they  had  taken  each  other  in. 

It  all  flashed  before  the  Judge  as  he  stood  there 
at  the  window,  thinking  of  these  things  —  thinking 
of  the  serious  plight  he  had  got  himself  into  at  last. 
Every  day  Rossacre  passed  his  gate,  and  cast  envious 
eyes  over  his  vast  lawn,  over  his  splendid  house. 
Hardworking  grocers  passed  it,  and  wondered  what 
life  must  be  like  to  a  man  who  had  always  his  own 
way,  as  happened  to  Gayland.  Grocers'  daughters 
passed  the  beautiful  place,  and  dreamed  of  the  dances 
they  would  give  if  they  lived  in  such  a  house;  of  the 
gowns  they  would  wear;  of  the  clever  little  speeches 
of  theirs,  too,  that  would  be  bandied  about  the  town, 


THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  135 

as  Annabel  Gayland's  were,  and  considered  so  clever. 
So  Rossacre  passed  the  Gayland  gate  daily,  and  long  was 
denied  its  exultant  discovery  of  the  worries  that  haunted 
that  house  also,  as  they  haunt  nearly  every  other. 

While  the  Gayland  fortunes  lasted,  they  had  made 
a  brave  success;  but  Gayland  was  without  the  thews 
to  hold  them.  While  his  money  held  out  he  had 
bought  off  the  young  and  rising  world  about  him. 
As  it  was  he  was  going  down  gamely,  in  sheer  be- 
wilderment of  having  had  after  all  such  a  beggarly 
show.  Why,  in  any  event,  a  thousand  times  he  had 
asked  himself,  had  he  of  all  men  to  be  burdened  with 
the  incubus  of  that  woman!  And,  irony  of  it,  in 
return  for  no  wrong  to  her  whatever  except  what 
was  her  own  choosing. 

The  answer,  so  far  as  there  was  an  answer,  was  of 
course  that  Gayland  had  been  sunny  where  stamina 
was  required.  Sunniness  he  had  always  dispensed 
about  him,  and  no  whit  of  it  had  he  received  in  re- 
turn. What  source  of  sympathy  Mrs.  Branstane  was 
is  clear  enough  already,  Mrs.  Gayland  herself  had 
nothing  to  offer.  And  never  could  Lord  Bountiful 
endure  to  unmask  before  his  daughter,  the  one  per- 
son in  the  world  who  thought  him  good  and  dear. 
Never  had  he  been  permitted  really  to  love,  even  his 
daughter;  and  a  world  of  unuttered  tenderness  lay 
in  him,  pathetically  eager  for  chances  of  expression. 
All  his  life  long  it  had  been  the  Judge's  single  passion 
to  fill  Annabel's  life  with  every  harmless  joy,  and  keep 
from  it  every  possible  pain.  And  if,  mistakenly,  he 
had  delayed  visiting  upon  her  the  reason  for  reducing 
her  joys,  surely  he  was  generous  rather  than  mistaken. 
Daily  the  Judge  lived  by  his  daughter's  side,  yearning 
for  sympathy,  and  generously  neglecting  to  exact  the 


136  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

time  and  labour  for  its  expression.  By  day  he  imper- 
sonated to  her  the  rock  of  self-reliance,  the  inex- 
haustible source  of  cheer  and  favours;  and  often  at 
night  he  would  steal  sleepless  from  his  room,  and 
cross  the  hall  and  kiss  the  door  behind  which  she 
slept  in  ignorance  of  his  hunger  for  her  love.  To 
Annabel  he  was  the  all-sufficient  provider;  to  the 
world  a  pompous  ass;  to  Mrs.  Branstane  a  ruined 
weakling:  but  behind  all  of  these  suffered  a  defence- 
less man,  generous  and  self-giving,  alone  with  many 
troubles. 

"Saved  anything  for  me!"  the  Judge  started  from 
his  revery  to  hear  Mrs.  Branstane  repeating  more 
loudly  still,  to  revive  his  wandering  attention.  "Well, 
yes,  if  you  want  to  know  it,  just  where  do  / 
come  in,  I  'd  like  to  know!  Ho-ow  are  you  going  to 
repay  me  all  you  owe  me!  Ho-ow  are  you  going  to 
make  up  for  all  the  misery  you  've  given  me!  It 's 
hi-igh  time  you  made  a  clean  breast  of  things  to 
Annabel  and  her  mother.  You  can  't  go  on  with  these 
silly  extravagances.  No  more  of  these  fine  dances 
for  you,  my  fine  friend!  And  Annabel  with  her  teJk 
of  Palm  Beach  and  Pasadena!  If  you  had  listened  to 
me  all  along  — " 

"Yes,  yes!"  the  Judge  granted,  in  a  voice  as  far 
away  as  his  thoughts,  as  he  edged  away  toward  the 
door.  "  Yes,  I  guess  you  're  right,  Nellie.  I  must 
attend  to  the  matter.  I  really  must.  But  meanwhile 
Mrs.  Gay  land  may  be  ready  at  last  for  her  drive." 

And  he  successfully  vanished. 

"As  if  I  had  never  'listened'  to  you!"  he  groaned 
to  himself  as  he  achieved  his  escape. 

Behind  him  he  left  Mrs.  Branstane  laughing  her 
curious  chuckle  of  satisfaction  as  he  slipped  away. 


CHAPTER   III 

MRS.  BRANSTANE  felt  entitled  now  to  laugh 
whenever  she  pleased,  before  the  comfor- 
table spectacle  of  her  rising  prospects.  Once 
sullen  and  angered  at  being  denied  her  due  place  in 
the  world,  she  now  brightened  with  the  hope  of  attain- 
ing it  at  last.  And  for  all  she  held  Gayland  responsible 
for  her  long  subjection,  even  he  had  a  share  in  her 
gathering  sweetness,  as  Annabel's  practical  philan- 
thropy promised  her  a  substantial  opportunity  to  rise 
and  shine  and  take  her  station  one  evening  about  that 
time. 

The  sweetness  was  destined  to  a  short  life,  however, 
and  the  opportunity  to  rise  was  postponed  for  a  period. 

It  is  probable  that  the  comedy  of  Mrs.  Branstane 
at  that  stage  was  fully  comprehended,  and  as  fully 
enjoyed,  by  only  two  persons  in  Rossacre  —  two 
young  men  who  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms  on  the  top 
floor  of  "The  Club,"  otherwise  the  Lincoln  Club,  in 
command  of  a  fine  sweep  of  the  town,  of  the  river 
that  divided  it,  and  of  the  mountain  beyond  that 
guarded  its  southern  side  like  a  gigantic  vine-covered 
stone  fence,  then  emblazoned  with  foliage  in  all  the 
hues  of  dying  September.  Their  chambers  consisted 
of  two  bedrooms  —  of  monkish  dimensions  —  a  pair 
of  baths,  a  sitting-room  of  more  generous  expanse  and 
more  sybaritic  garnishings,  and  a  sixth  room  known 
to  its  proprietors  as  "The  Sink."  In  this  cubicle  the 
Hon.  Andrew  Penning  was  wont  to  moil  over  his 
tougher  cases  at  law  in  the  still  watches  of  the  night, 


138  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

while  his  younger  friend,  Sherry  Brookes,  passed  the 
time  in  profitable  slumber,  or  in  occupations  a  little 
less  profitable. 

On  this  particular  evening  the  two  gentlemen  were 
deep  and  profane  in  the  processes  of  prinking  for 
bridge  at  the  home  of  Senator  Banks,  with  the  club 
that  owed  its  origin  and  its  energies  to  the  Misses 
Banks  and  Gayland. 

"You  '11  see  her  for  yourself  this  evening,"  Penning 
was  shouting  from  his  bath  to  the  occupant  of  the 
other  bath  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  suite.  And  like 
all  his  remarks,  when  he  happened  to  be  amused,  it 
was  uttered  in  abysmal  gloom. 

"She's  going  to  run  the  show,  is  she?" 

"Yes.     But  not  in  her  professional  capacity." 

"As  a  guest.*^     Mrs.  Brimstone?     Good  Lord!" 

"Just  that." 

Sherry  whistled,  then  roared  with  laughter.  "Oh, 
you're  kiddin'!" 

"I  may  be  mistaken." 

"You  —  you  mean  the  girls  have  taken  her  up?" 

"I  believe  Miss  Gayland  wants  to  show  her  some- 
thing of  life." 

"Who  told  you!     The  Brimstone  woman?" 

"A  higher  authority." 

"Good  Lord!" 

A  pause. 

"Some  row!"  Sherry  resumed.  "I  don't  know 
what  there  is  about  that  creature,  but  she  affects  me 
like  a  floating  mine.  What  do  you  make  of  her 
yourself?" 

"I'm  rather  puzzled  by  the  intentions  of  her 
Maker.  She  's  formed  a  very  favourable  impression  of 
herself,  I  can  see." 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  139 

"But  who  is  she?  Queer  bird  for  the  Gayland  cage, 
I  always  thought.     I  can't  seem  to  fix  her." 

"My  dear  Sherry!  I  wonder  if  any  woman  who  can 
be  discussed  in  a  gentlemen's  club  isn't  —  'fixed'?" 

At  the  finish  of  his  laughter  Sherry  said,  "Well! 
I  'm  glad  I  've  got  you  for  a  friend  instead  of  an 
enemy!" 

"I  'm  sorry  I  said  that." 

"You  needn't  be.  That  woman  doesn't  ring  right. 
I  can  just  see  Isabel  Warren  looking  that  dame  over! 
And—" 

Sherry  rushed  to  Penning's  door  with  something  on 
his  mind  and  a  broad  smile  on  his  face  that  showed 
through  even  a  rich  coating  of  lather.  "That  re- 
minds me!"  he  chuckled,  leaning  against  the  jamb. 
"That  isn't  the  only  row  that 's  on  for  to-night!  Pen, 
I  '11  lay  you  a  five-spot  I  beat  down  old  Banks  this 
very  night.  Are  you  on?  I  've  got  the  swellest  little 
thunderbolt  up  my  sleeve!"  And  he  fairly  smacked 
his  lips  over  the  same. 

"What's  the  great  idea?" 

"Not  one,  but  two!  Wait  and  see."  He  turned 
away  toward  his  own  quarters,  fairly  singing,  "Oh, 
I  'm  going  to  score,  I  'm  going  to  score;  o-oh,  I  'm 
going  to  score,  going  to  score;  yes,  I  'm  going  to 
score  this  night."  And  in  a  moment  more  he  burst 
into  song  outright,  or  into  his  best  imitation  of  the 
gentle  muse,  — 

''O-oh,  the  cap'n  of  police  is  dead 
Through  having  lost  his  life.'' 

A  moment  more  and  Sherry  had  thought  better  of 
his  mystery,  or  sought  to  deepen  it,  and  again  thrust 
his  head  through  Penning's  door.     "You  heard  me. 


140  THE   END     OF  THE   FLIGHT 

I  take  it?  I  'm  going  to  score  to-night,  I  'm  going 
to  be  back  there  again,  the  same  old  faithful  house- 
dog of  old.  You  wait  and  see,  I  'm  going  to  land 
there  in  spite  of  Nick.  In  spite  of  Banks,  mind  you! 
Thanks  to  you!"    he  finished,  and  fled. 

"To  me?" 

"To  you,"  the  call  came  back. 

"I  don't  follow  you.  I've  kept  religiously  out  of 
your  affairs," 

"That's  just  what  you've  done.  /  'follow'  you. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?  Or  am  I  just  breaking 
the  news?" 

"It's  an  interesting  theory.  But  you  wouldn't 
dare  state  it  if  I  were  in  the  same  room  with  you!" 

"Oh,  cut  it!  You  know  well  enough  that  I  'm  on 
to  you.  You  'd  be  a  nice  fellow  if  you  ever  allowed 
yourself  to  be  outspoken.  I  mean  outspoken  about 
yourself,  and  not  about  me!  Do  I  make  myself 
clear?" 

"Clearly  an  idiot!" 

"Pretty  poor  for  you.  I  thought  you  'd  come  back 
at  me  with  something  more  about  marriage  being 
only  another  form  of  warfare." 

"Which  it  is," 

"Well,  I  notice  that  you're  thinking  of  enlisting 
yourself," 

A  silence. 

"I  say,  you  seem  to  be  enlisting  yourself." 

A  silence. 

With  that  the  younger  man  again  left  his  room, 
this  time  attired  to  the  extent  of  a  pair  of  grey  socks, 
an  under-shirt,  and  a  still  heavy  coating  of  lather  on 
his  face,  which  he  thrust  impudently  into  the  door- 
way of  the  elder  man's  bath. 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  141 

"I  happened  to  remark,"  he  further  remarked, 
"that  you  seem  to  be  enlisting  on  your  own  hook." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well?" 

"Well!  .  .  .  Damn  you  for  an  old  crab!  Now 
tell  me  all  about  it.  Is  she  nice  to  you?  And  do 
you  really  mean  it?  Or  are  you  cruelly  bluffing,  just 
to  fool  old  Banks  and  leave  the  way  clear  for  me, 
with  Sylvia?" 

Upon  his  impertinent  questioner  Penning  turned 
an  oval  of  iridescent  lather  and  the  two  singularly 
brilliant  grey  eyes  of  the  Hon.  Andrew. 

"Oh,  you  old  sphinx,  you  can't  terrify  me.  Why 
can^t  you  talk?  .  .  .  To  me,  anyhow!" 

"You're  off,  chronologically,  only  about  a  million 
years,  my  dear  boy."  Penning  turned  back  to  his 
shaving.  "I  'm  not  a  sphinx.  Only  a  mummy.  And 
—  I  —  find  Miss  Gayland  a  charming  person." 

"My  stars!  What  a  revelation!  What  a  baring 
of  a  soul!"  There  the  intruding  Sherry  ventured  into 
the  room  far  enough  to  land  a  light  hook  on  the  wind 
of  the  impenetrable  Penning.  "Well!  I'm  glad 
there  's  somebody  about  can  make  the  dumb  speak." 

"My  dear  fellow" — Penning  wiped  his  razor  — 
"do  you  really  want  to  know  why  I  talk  so  little?" 

"I  suppose  it's  because  there's  nobody  by  to 
listen?" 

"It's  because  I  have  so  little  to  say." 

"Ah!  De/icate  hint!  Thanks  so  much!"  And 
once  more  Sherry  achieved  an  orderly  retreat,  sing- 
ing still. 

Twenty  minutes  later  the  two  men  were  passing  in 
review    before    each    other,    suiting    the    height    of   a 


142  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

trouser  leg  to  the  other's  ideal,  or  their  hats  to  the 
proper  cant.  With  still  a  good  half  hour  to  waste, 
and  with  the  lively  remains  of  a  fire  still  crackling 
on  the  hearth,  they  sat  down  for  a  pipe,  and  one  of 
them  for  a  taste  of  spirits.  The  other  in  high  animal 
spirits  instead.  He  was  humming.  On  the  old  rope- 
edge  library  table  between  them  a  tall  Cloisonne  lamp 
rose  out  of  a  pile  of  books  —  Wells's  "Mr.  Britling," 
a  Rabelais  richly  bound,  half  a  dozen  novels  rather 
verging  on  the  frivolous,  Dostoievsky's  "House  of 
the  Dead,"  Freud's  "Interpretation  of  Dreams"  — 
a  hasty  eye  might  have  made  out  the  titles,  and  would 
have  had  no  difficulty  in  deciphering  the  tastes  and 
identity  of  the  readers.  And  always  Sherry  was 
humming. 

At  length  Penning  spoke.  "I  have  at  least  my 
Scotch;  while  you,  besides  your  superiority,  have, 
evidently,  something  on  your  mind.  How  long  has 
it  been  since  —  ?" 

"Ten  dry  weeks!" 

"But  think  of  the  reward!" 

The  humming  was  resumed. 

"Why  are  you  twittering  there,  like  a  canary! 
What's  all  this  warning  for  Banks?" 

"0-oh,  just  going  to  play  the  part  of  Providence 
for  a  while.  Caught  a  hint  the  other  day  of  a  dirty 
little  deal  that  that  fellow  Landis  may  pull  on  the 
Senater,  that 's  all.  Or,  that 's  half  of  it.  The  other 
half's  better  yet!"     And  the  humming  went  on,  — 

^^0-oh,  the  cap'n  of  police  is  dead 
Through  having  lost  his  life,^^ 

till  Sherry's  pipe  went  out. 

"I  'd  tell  you  all  about  the  first  half,"  Sherry  went 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  143 

on,  as  he  struck  a  match,  "only  I  'm  afraid  you  might 
score  first.  And  I  want  to  cut  what  poor  little  fig- 
ure I  can  before  the  little  Senator.  Seeing  what 
prize  I  'm  playing  for.  Can  you  blame  me?  .  .  . 
Though  I  suppose,"  Sherry  sighed,  "he'll  have  his 
work  cut  out  for  him,  forgetting  my  little  escapades!" 

Handsome  devil  Sherry  was,  as  he  sat,  or  rather 
lay  back,  in  his  deep  chair;  with  his  dark  hair  brushed 
back,  his  deep  blue  eyes  twinkling;  with  his  dimpled 
chin  founded  on  a  firm  jaw,  and  his  dashing,  even 
princely  air.  "Even  my  little  pile  of  money  won't 
talk  to  him,  now,  any  more!"  Sherry  contradicted 
his  observation,  "since  I  sank  about  half  of  it  in  a 
dare-devil  venture  the  other  day!  I  '11  tell  you  about 
that,  in  good  time,  too,"  he  chuckled  on.  "But"  — 
he  looked  across  the  table  suddenly  and  frankly, 
"you  know  what  really  'queered'  me  with  the  Sena- 
tor, don't  you.^^" 

"Don't  know  which  particular  thing  among  the 
million  did  it,"  Penning  calculated. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  my  deviltry  so  much,  I  think,'* 
Sherry  mused  into  the  fire,  as  if  taking  an  inventory 
of  his  past.  "But  a  long  time  ago,"  he  fell  into 
revery,  "before  you  came  here,  when  Banks  was 
just  busting  into  politics,  his  brother  got  married  — 
in  Banks's  house  —  and  Banks  got  him  up  a  great 
funeral.  Wanted  to  make  a  tremendous  hit  with  the 
electorate  —  I  believe  he  calls  it  electorate  now.  Out- 
door wedding,  and  all  that;  with  a  brass  band  to 
play  the  wedding  march.  Well" — Sherry  lurched 
deeper  into  his  chair  —  "just  when  the  thing  started, 
band  tooting,  bridal  party  all  ready,  and  all  that,  I 
sneaked  up  behind  the  leader,  where  the  band  could 
all  see  me,  and  began  sucking  a  lemon." 


144  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Sherry  chuckled,  and  a  broad  grin  spread  itself 
over  the  features  of  Penning. 

"I  will  say,  the  effect  was  something  beautiful.  It 
puckered  the  jaws  of  every  mother's  son  of  them,  and 
they  couldn't  play  another  note.  The  leader  got 
flustered,  and  raved,  and  —  really  never  knew  what 
was  the  matter.  By  that  time  the  band  couldn't  play 
for  laughing  —  with  the  crowd  roaring  too.  And  just 
when  things  were  nicely  mussed  up,  out  runs  little 
Banks,  swearing  and  purple  in  the  face,  mad  as  a 
wet  hen.  And  the  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  they 
had  to  play  the  grand  march  on  an  old  piano  in  the 
house.  .  .  .  Well,"  Sherry  finished,  after  a  moment 
with  his  briar,  "of  course  it  got  into  the  papers, 
and  became  a  town  joke.  I  wasn't,  you  see,  thinking 
about  Sylvia  then.  But  I  guess,"  he  stretched  and 
yawned,  "it  was  that,  more  than  anything  else,  that 
got  me  in  wrong  with  the  Senator.  "It  —  it  seemed 
to  get  under  his  skin,"  he  finished,  with  a  sad  stare 
into  the  fire. 

For  a  long  moment  Penning  confronted  the  same 
blaze  with  his  broad  grin. 

"I  wish,"  mused  Sherry,  further,  with  a  sigh  first 
and  then  a  chuckle,  "I  wish  I  were  as  certain  of  Sylvia 
as  I  am  of  the  Senator!"  It  was  clear  that  he  hoped 
for  encouragement. 

Which,  after  a  long  pause,  he  received. 

"Your  'escapades,'"  said  Penning,  "as  you  call 
them,  will  turn  out  to  be  your  best  card  with  Sylvia. 
They  strike  me  dead  with  envy.  One  has  to  have  a 
genius  for  that  sort  of  thing.  There 's  something 
deep  down  in  womankind  that  admires  that  sort  of 
thing  in  a  man.  It  isn't  base,  either.  I  believe  every 
woman  knows  that  the  man  best  able  to  measure  the 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  145 

real  goodness  in  her  is  the  man  who  has  burned  all 
the  dross  out  of  himself.  He  has  no  interest  in  her 
but  an  honest  worship.  In  your  eminently  proper 
man  there  's  a  ravening  unsatisfied  beast,  and  every 
woman  knows  it.  A  chap  like  you  brings  to  a  good 
girl  a  few  sorry  recollections,  but  a  mind  able  to 
measure  how  high  she  stands.  He  —  looks  up  from 
such  a  depth,  you  know." 

Sherry  glanced  across  the  table  between  them  and 
said,  with  a  curiously  peering  smile,  "Why  —  why 
did  you  say  all  that  to  me?  Do  you  —  do  you  mind 
if  I  use  that  on  Sylvia?" 

"Use  everything  you  can!     You'll  have  to  I" 

"See  here!"  Sherry  now  turned  to  lean  far  across 
the  table.  "I'm  an  impudent  cuss.  But  I  believe 
you  told  me  all  that  for  just  that  purpose.  To  help 
me  out  with  Sylvia." 

"I  want  you  to  win." 

"But  I  mean  something  else.  See  here!  I  believe 
you  think  so  much  of  that  dear  girl  that  — " 

"That  I  want  you  to  have  her.     Likely,  isn't  it!" 

"With  you  it's  likely!" 

Penning  slowly  transferred  his  stare  from  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  to  the  blaze  in  Sherry's  eyes. 

"I  mean  it!"  the  younger  man  insisted.  "You're 
—  you  're  deliberately  putting  useful  words  into  my 
mouth!" 

"You'll  need  more  than  words!"  Penning  turned 
his  gaze  away,  and  quickly  dusted  the  other  man's 
vision  with  other  ideas.  "You'll  need  more  than 
words.  For  a  time  she  may  shrink  from  you.  But 
I  '11  think  the  worse  of  Sylvia  —  I  'd  think  the  worse 
of  any  girl  —  who  let  slip  such  a  fellow  as  you.  After 
all,  you're  not  precisely  vicious!" 


146  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Oh!"  Sherry  laughed.  "I  'm  too  much  the  snob 
to  dip  very  deep  into  the  rough  stuff!" 

"And  while,"  Penning  went  on,  to  keep  the  dis- 
course in  just  the  key  where  he  wanted  it,  "while 
virginity  and  purity  are  precious  things,  the  girl  who 
sets  too  high  a  store  on  them  ends  only  in  ridicule. 
Those  qualities  don't  gain  in  value  by  being  eternally 
saved.  They  gain  by  being  given.  I  '11  wager  any 
shrivelled  spinster  can  recall  —  and  regret  —  at  least 
one  fatal  moment  when  she  decided  that  her  saintly 
charm  was  too  good  to  surrender." 

A  pause.     And  then  Sherry.  — 

"You  say  that  as  if  you  were  explaining  something 
to  yourself.     But  —  but  may  I  spout  that,  too?" 

"You'd  better!" 

"Why"  — the  younger  man  ventured  farther  across 
the  table,  and  ventured  farther  still  with  his  speech 
—  "why  don't  you  plead  all  that  for  yourself?" 

"My  dear  boy!  I  haven't  your  fine  romantic 
style!" 

There,  fearfully  or  not,  Sherry  ventured  as  far  as  a 
real  thunderbolt,  which  he  launched  straight  into 
Penning's  gaze.  "As  if  Sylvia  Banks  didn't  know, 
and  didn't  think  it  romantic,  that  you  are  stepping 
aside  for  me!  And  as  if  she  didn't  know,  if  I  talk 
that  sort  of  stuff,  where  it  comes  from!" 

The  answer  came  back  gravely.  "Sherry,  my  lad, 
two  good  friends  should  never  lie  to  each  other.  I  'm 
not  making  game  of  Miss  Gayland.  And  I  truly 
worship  Sylvia  —  as  an  object  in  Nature.  Any  man 
would.  So  that  doesn't  entitle  me  to  credit  even  for 
unusual  good  taste.  If  any  young  woman  should  care 
to  interest  herself  in  me  I  'd  consider  myself  an  object 
of  charity.      Very   grateful   of  course!"      He   looked 


THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  147 

away  again  to  the  fire.  "But  the  truth  is,  I  'm 
a  mummy.  Though  it  may  be  some  credit  that  I 
know  it." 

Sherry  laughed,  a  bit  tartly,  a  little  hurt  at  the 
rebuff  to  his  honest  overtures  toward  confidence. 
"Yes,  I've  noticed  that!  As  if  all  you've  said  to 
me  isn't  spoken  by  a  man's  very  bearing,  by  his 
every  look  and  move!  And  more  plainly  than  you  've 
just  put  it  in  words!  They  all  sense  it  in  you.  If 
you  believe  you  're  a  mummy,  just  look  into  every 
pretty  face  you  see  there  to-night.  They  even  sus- 
pect why  you  are  shining  up  to  Annabel  Gayland. 
Only,  of  course,  it  wouldn't  be  decent  of  you  to 
speak  the  truth  to  your  best  friend!" 

"My  dear  Sherry  — " 

"Oh,  understand  me!"  Sherry  was  not  to  be 
halted.  "It's  not  that  you're  concealing  anything 
mean.  That 's  not  your  kind.  It 's  the  other  way 
round.  I  believe"  —  Sherry  studied  him  intently, 
and  then,  for  an  amateur,  delivered  himself  of  a 
singularly  penetrating  psychological  judgment  —  "I 
believe  that  you  take  a  fiendish  delight  in  baffling 
people,  with  your  cleverness.  You  like  to  bewilder 
'em  and  fool  'em  and  tease  'em.  And  that  isn't  all. 
I  believe  you  're  simply  too  decent  to  show  your  full 
decency.  But,"  he  added  somewhat  wistfully,  "I 
wish  you  wouldn't  hide  it.     From  me." 

Penning  was  stretching  his  arms.  "My  dear 
Sherry!"  a  last  time  he  battled  the  tide  of  words. 
"Your  conjectures  are  much  finer  than  my  facts." 
He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  tall  old  clock  in 
the  corner.  "It's  high  time  we  were  going.  Clap 
on  your  things." 

But  Sherry  had  risen  too,  and  was  placing  his  hands 


148  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

on  Penning's  shoulders.  "Pen,"  he  said,  "you're  a 
puzzle.  But  you  're  an  honest  man,  if  ever  there  was 
one.  I  'd  be  lost  if  you  were  in  the  way.  But  I  take 
you  at  your  word.  Thanks  to  you" — he  fell  into 
chuckles  again  —  "I  score  to-night!  I  score,  I  score, 
I  score!"  And  he  commiserated  still  again  the  cap'n 
of  police. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  HALF  hour  later,  taking  casual  inventory  of 
the  eight  and  forty  young  spirits  foregathered 
in  the  Banks  drawing-rooms,  fizzing  into  end- 
less chatter,  Penning  wondered  where  else  on  earth, 
or  in  fable  or  fancy,  so  much  ineffable  physical  beauty 
might  be  assembled  —  Annabel  Gayland,  with  her 
elfin  grey  eyes,  her  saucy  mouth,  her  pretty  wit; 
Sylvia,  a  bit  more  decorative,  under  the  golden  cob- 
web of  her  hair;  even  Isabel  Warren,  the  fading 
remnants  of  her  dark  beauty  emblazoned  in  the  most 
daring  of  yellow  gowns.  To  produce  such  bewilder- 
ing graces  it  needs,  Penning  decided,  the  feebler  ex- 
citements, the  quieter  life,  the  regular  hours,  the  sober 
fortunes,  the  more  intimate  human  sympathies  of  the 
smaller  city. 

What  though  their  discourse  did  savour  strongly 
of  the  personal  and  minor  interests  of  the  tiny  me- 
tropolis —  of  the  skating  club  they  meant  to  organise 
for  the  new  dancing  on  ice;  or  maybe  reminiscence  — 
of  the  merry  outings  of  the  summer  newly  past,  of 
the  house  parties  at  divers  lodges  in  the  nearby  hills 
or  by  the  nearer  streams.  Early  in  the  evening  Sheri- 
dan Brookes  experienced  a  shock  at  the  unexpected 
success  of  his  campaign  to  enlist  the  regard  of  Sena- 
tor Banks,  when  the  Senator,  it  may  be  absent- 
mindedly,  accepted  his  invitation  to  a  hunting  party 
in  mid-October.  The  remainder  of  the  evening,  or 
what  might  be  called  its  interludes,  they  devoted  of 


150  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

course  to  the  purpose  of  the  evening,  to  auction, 
until  the  fortunes  of  the  cards  bestowed,  as  usual,  the 
gentleman's  prize  to  Mr.  Penning,  and  to  Isabel 
Warren,  as  ever,  the  confection  reserved  for  the 
leading  lady. 

Miss  Gayland's  evening,  however,  could  scarcely 
be  classified  as  an  unmitigated  pleasure.  There 
occurred,  during  the  evening,  incidents  not  strictly 
to  her  taste. 

For  example  it  pained  her  to  find  that  Mr.  Penning 
was  so  clearly  a  weakling.  He  allowed  the  odious 
Isabel  Warren  to  absorb  far  too  much  of  his  time  and 
his  conversation  —  chiefly,  it  must  be  said  in  his 
favour,  in  dutiful  attention  to  her  somewhat  extended 
recital  of  rather  recent  experiences  in  Europe.  It  was 
immediately  after  the  solo  violin  of  the  orchestra 
had  delivered,  rather  acceptably,  that  haunting  bit 
of  human  compassion  which  Beethoven  has  writ- 
ten, curiously,  into  the  minuet  of  one  of  his  violin- 
and-pianoforte  sonatas,  that  he  chose  a  moment  of 
impressive  silence  to  say,  gravely,  — 

"I  like  music.  ...  It  knows." 

Whereat  everyone  stared  at  Penning,  and  wondered 
what  it  was  he  "knew" — perhaps,  Miss  Annabel 
thought,  beyond  anything  he  had  ever  confided  to 
her. 

Otherwise  the  occasion  was  memorable  chiefly  for 
the  almost  miraculous  measure  of  regard  which 
Sherry  Brookes  was  enabled  to  extract  from  Senator 
Banks.  If  anyone  could  have  been  more  astonished 
at  this  than  the  Senator  himself,  that  one  would  have 
been  Penning,  for  even  Sherry's  most  intimate  friend 
could  scarcely  have  escaped  stupefaction  at  the  new 
cubits  which  he  added  to  his  polity.     The  Senator  of 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  151 

course  remained  what  Nature  had  made  him  origi- 
nally—  the  fox;  yet  beside  him  Sherry  contrived 
to  measure  at  least  the  wits  of  a  highly  intelligent 
fox-terrier. 

He  was  obliged  to  wait,  his  nerves  notwithstanding, 
through  nearly  the  whole  evening  before  he  saw  the 
happy  opportunity  to  "score,"  as  he  had  darkly 
hinted;  but  then,  the  refreshments  being  served,  and 
the  gentlemen  having  duly  retired  for  a  mid-evening 
cigar  or  cigarette,  he  did  manoeuvre  the  tactful 
segregation  of  the  Senator  in  a  room  beneath  the 
broad  stair  reserved  by  Mrs.  Banks  for  those  addicted 
to  the  filthy  habit. 

Having  backed  the  Senator  into  a  corner,  he  asked, 
in  a  whisper,  "Have  you  a  moment  to  spare,  sir?  I 
have  something  of  the  very  utmost  importance  to 
tell  you.     Not  about  Sylvia,"  he  was  careful  to  add. 

"H'm!  What's  it  about?"  the  Senator  said 
aloud. 

"Not  about  Sylvia,  sir,"  Sherry  doubled  the  assur- 
ance. "Strictly  business.  And  I  shouldn't  bother 
you  with  it  if  I  didn't  think  it  of  the  highest  im- 
portance, sir.     If  you  please?" 

"Oh,  very  well."  The  Senator  reluctantly  led  the 
way  to  his  study.  "Now,  then!  Fire  away!"  he 
commanded,  when  he  had  shut  the  door. 

Sherry  sat  down  in  one  of  the  enormous  oaken  and 
leathern  chairs,  rested  his  arms  on  the  massive  oaken 
table  in  the  best  diplomatic  manner,  and  said, 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  sir,  of  the  best  intentions  of 
Mr.  Landis,  in  the  matter  of  the  street-car  extension?" 

"H'm,  h'm!  Aren't  you  beyond  your  depth,  my 
boy?" 

"No  matter  about  that,  sir.     I  happen  to  know  — 


152  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

it 's  come  to  my  ears  —  that  Mr.  Landis  may  not  be 
quite  willing  to  surrender  the  property  turned  over 
to  him  as  security  for  his  note,  and  — " 

"How  come  you  to  know  about  such  things,  young 
man!" 

"I  beg  you  to  forget  that,  and  listen  to  what  I  say, 
sir.  I  've  learned  that  Mr.  Landis  isn't  quite  trust- 
worthy in  matters  of  agreement  between  gentlemen. 
I  know  that  you  're  concerned,  sir,  because  you  've 
said  nothing  about  it  to  Mr.  Penning.  He  told  me 
this  evening  that  he  always  knew  when  you  were 
worried,  because  you  then  never  confided  your  worries 
to  him.  I  hope,  sir,  you  've  taken  the  precaution  to 
place  everything  that  you  've  done  in  such  shape 
that  nothing  open  to  interpretation  outside  of  the 
strict  reading  of — " 

"Bless  your  soul,  you  leave  that  to  me,  young 
man!"  The  Senator  airily  waved  his  hand.  "I  'm 
not  quite  an  infant  in  matters  of  business." 

Sherry  was  thinking,  "Oh,  but  you  are,  sir!"  Aloud 
he  said,  "No,  sir;  but  you're  so  honest  that  you 
are  apt  to  believe  that  everyone  is  as  honest  and 
scrupulous  as  yourself.     And  — " 

"Tut,  tut!"  the  Senator  let  himself  be  tickled  by 
that  into  a  smile.  "That  may  be.  But  I  defy  any 
man  to  beat  me  at  any  game,  sir!"  At  any  rate  he 
was  not  going  to  have  his  wits  impugned,  however 
safe  might  be  his  morals! 

"Quite  true,  sir.  But  in  Mr.  Landis  you  are  deal- 
ing with  a  man — " 

"Who  is  shrewder  than  myself,  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  by  no  means.     But  one  who  will  bear — " 

"Leave  that  to  me,  young  man!  Leave  it  to  me 
to  take  care  of  Mr.  Landis.    Believe  me,  I  value  your 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  153 

kindly  intentions.  But  I  've  been  in  business  some 
years,  Sherry,  and  I  know  — " 

"Yes,  sir.     You  're  quite  at  ease  about  this — ?" 

The  Senator  held  up  a  deprecating  hand.  "Oh, 
quite,  quite.     Trust  me  — " 

"I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  sir.  I  wanted  you 
to  know  that,  quite  apart  from  any  personal  interest, 
you  understand.  I  wanted  you  to  have  the  benefit 
of  knowledge  that  had  come  to  my  ears  —  knowledge 
that  I  thought  might  have  been  purposely  withheld 
from  you.  Sometimes,  you  know,  we  boys  hear 
things  that  come  to  us  just  because  we  are  boys  and 
are  not  supposed  to  know  its  importance." 

"Very  good  of  you.  Sherry,  I  'm  sure,"  the  Senator 
beamed,  tilting  back  his  head  till  he  blew  a  very  tall 
plume  from  his  cigar.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you're  in 
the  way  of  mending  your  ways.  Keep  it  up.  I  'm 
convinced  there  's  a  place  for  you,  in  Rossacre,  if 
you  once  get  down  to  it." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  knew  you'd  want  your  son-in-law  to 
be  worth  while." 

The  tilt  of  the  Senator's  head  was  suddenly  lowered. 
"Son-in-law!^  Son-in-law  be  damned!  Put  that  out 
of  your  head!" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Senator!  That  was  settled  long  ago. 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  well  get  along  without  me. 
You  knew,  of  course,  that  Sylvia  and  her  mother  are 
going  with  me  to  Cambridge  to  see  the  Yale  game?" 

"Yale  game?  Yale  game  be  damned,  sir!  What 
are  you  talking  about  the  Yale  game!  Sylvia  is  not 
going  with  you  to  the  Yale  game!" 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  think  you're  mistaken. 
Mrs.  Banks  herself  has  agreed  to  it,  and  —  speaking 
as    man    to    man  —  you    know    yourself   that  —  er — 


154  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

that  settles  it.  And  then  there 's  another  thing," 
Sherry  blandly  hurried  on,  to  forestall  the  explosion 
that  was  due.  "You  know,  don't  you,  that  I  bought 
'The  Globe'  last  week?  I  've  had  to  keep  it  more  or 
less  quiet,  for  a  reason  I  '11  tell  you  in  a  moment.  It 
struck  me  that  you  and  I  could  use  it  to  advantage 
together.  You  see?  Nothing  like  having  an  organ, 
for  the  expression  of  one's  opinion.  There  are  a  lot 
of  things  in  Rossacre  that  I  want  to  attend  to  myself. 
Take  the  Board  of  Public  Works.  You  know  your- 
self what  a  job  you  had  to  get  clear  of  the  row  that 
blew  when  the  Board  of  Public  Works  made  an  awful 
blunder  about  opening  the  Washington  Street  ex- 
tension, and  forgot  to  stipulate  the  assessments  on 
the  property  abutters  for  sidewalks  and  curbing 
within  two  years.  When  the  time  came  they  couldn't 
collect.  The  city  lost  $8,000  by  the  slip,  and  for  all 
you  yourself  got  it  hushed  up,  the  city  council  had  to 
raise  the  tax  rate  sixty  cents  a  thousand  all  round 
to  make  up  the  deficit.  Of  course  I  'd  take  every 
precaution  to  see  that  your  name  was  kept  out  of  it, 
but  think  what  a  howl  there  would  be  if  I  gave  that 
matter  a  little  publicity.     You  see?" 

The  Senator  stared. 

"And  then  there's  Sam  Parks.  I  wonder  if  you 
knew,  when  you  got  him  elected  chairman  of  the 
Board  of  Public  Works,  that  he 's  employed  by  a 
firm  of  road  builders?  You  see,  he  sells  the  city  his 
brand  of  paving,  and  then  collects  a  commission  from 
the  city,  as  well  as  his  salary,  and  finally  gets  his 
brother-in-law  a  job  as  city  engineer  as  well." 

The  Senator  stared. 

"And  then  there  's  Tom  Moody.  I  believe  you  got 
him  appointed  Chairman  of  the  Board  of  Assessors. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  155 

I  've  noticed  that  his  salary  is  $2,500  a  year  —  not 
bad  in  itself.  Yet  he  puts  in  a  bill  to  the  city  amount- 
ing to  $3,500  for  —  for  'incidentals.'  And  if  I  look 
up  the  records  I  find  further  'incidentals.'  Possibly 
you  haven't  had  time  to  watch  up  the  matter." 

The  Senator  coughed.  And  stared.  He  walked  to 
a  new  station,  and  stared. 

"And  then  Brady,  chief  of  the  Fire  Department, 
who  issues  all  the  licenses  for  garages,  at  a  fee  of  a 
dollar  each.  But  you  and  I  know  what  we  gave  for 
our  licenses,  I  'm  sure.  And  then  Pratt,  the  city 
purchasing  agent.  He 's  bought  three  new  pieces 
of  motor  fire-apparatus  from  the  Wrotton  concern. 
And  —  while  there  may  be  no  connection  whatever, 
understand  me  —  1  noticed  the  other  day  a  mighty 
fine  Wrotton  touring  car  in  Pratt's  garage.  Possibly 
you  've  seen  it?" 

The  Senator  said  "H'm"  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and 
brought  them  back  to  the  original  stare. 

"You  see,  Senator,  I  have  a  notion  that  I  can  be 
of  real  service  to  this  community  after  all,  if  I  once 
get  down  to  it,  as  you  advise.  I  know  you  agree  .^" 
Sherry  smiled  as  if  sure  of  an  approving  pat  on  the 
head.  "Even  if  it  did  take  half  of  my  ready  money, 
I  'm  sure  that  purchase  of  'The  Globe'  will  be  a 
good  investment.  Of  course  I  've  tallied  off  only  the 
small  jobs.  But  what  I  really  bought  the  paper  for 
was  to  support  your  campaign  for  Penning  for  the 
Judgeship." 

Sherry  turned  his  head  to  the  ceiling  and  devoted 
himself  to  his  cigarette,  to  give  that  time  to  soak  in. 

"I've  kept  the  deal  quiet  because  I  knew  if  you 
set  out  to  push  him  for  the  job  he  might  soar  up  to 
his  moral  heights  and  refuse  it.     But  I  'm  sure  1  can 


156  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

make  'The  Globe'  useful  whenever  you  give  me  the 
word.  If  you  and  I  pull  together  for  Penning,  there  '11 
be  nothing  to  it.  And  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am 
that  we  are  to  be  so  closely  associated.  I  've  always 
admired  your  abilities.  We  can't  help  getting  on 
famously  together.  And  now  — "  Sherry  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  Senator,  who,  taken  so  utterly  aback, 
meekly  accepted  it  "  —  I  know  you  '11  forgive  me  for 
tearing  myself  away  from  you  and  rushing  back  to 
Sylvia.  But  one  last  word.  Don't  fail  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Landis,  will  you?" 

"One  moment!"    the  Senator  gasped. 

"  Yes,^ "  Sherry  said  cheerily,  with  the  most  innocent 
curiosity  in  the  world. 

"Ha  —  Have  a  cigar!"  the  Senator  commanded, 
and  extended  his  gold-mounted  case  for  Sherry's  choice. 

And  there  is  no  knowing  how  far  the  Senator's 
condescension  might  have  condescended  but  for  an 
interruption.  Sylvia  put  her  head  in  the  door,  and 
then  drew  back  with  an  "0-oh!" 

"Yes.^^"    said  Sherry,  as  if  he  himself  were  the  host. 

"I  —  I  only  wanted  to  ask  Father  if  he  'd  have  the 
orchestra  play  a  few  dances,"  Sylvia  hastened  to 
apologise  for  the  intrusion. 

"Oh,  ril  attend  to  that!"  Sherry  answered  su- 
perbly. And  with  that  Sylvia  had  fled  the  sacred 
precincts,  and  from  the  astonishing  spectacle  of  her 
father  in  the  act  of  lighting  a  cigar  firmly  tilted  be- 
tween Sherry  Brookes's  lips. 

A  few  brief  dances  followed,  and  then  the  party 
dispersed. 

While  the  servants  were  turning  off  the  lights,  the 
Senator  sought  out  the  company  of  his  daughter,  and 
said. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  157 

I  "Sylvia,  one  moment,  please."  He  kissed  her. 
(.  "  Has  —  has  anything  passed  lately  between  Sherry 
and  you.l^" 

"No,  father.    Why?" 

"Hasn't  he  asked  you  to  go  to  the  Yale  game  in 
Cambridge  —  with  your  mother?" 

"N-no."  But  Sylvia's  eyes  had  brightened  sud- 
denly. "N-not  yet,"  she  added.  "But  if  he  does,  I 
may  go?" 

"Has  he  said  anything  to  you  about  —  about  being 
my  son-in-law?" 

"Good  gracious,  father!     He  wouldn't  dare!" 

"Oh,  he  wouldn't  dare,  would  he?" 

And  Sylvia  wondered  why  her  father,  as  he  turned 
off  the  last  hall  light,  chuckled  so  strangely. 

Out  of  the  darkness  he  said  to  her  in  a  sepulchral 
voice,  "You  like  him?" 

And  out  of  the  darkness  he  received  an  embrace  and 
a  kiss. 


CHAPTER  V 

OUT  of  the  cooler  darkness  of  the  Autumn  night 
Penning,  seeing  how  sorely  Annabel  had  been 
bruised,  courageously  followed  her  into  the 
dimly  lit  entry  to  her  home.  There,  as  she  divined 
his  motive,  she  took  his  hand  and  led  him  with  her 
into  the  more  generously  lighted  drawing-room. 
Neither  was  moved  to  waste  words  on  a  matter  so 
patent  to  both  —  the  outstanding  blot  on  Annabel's 
evening. 

It  had  been  ordered  of  Fate  that  "The  Globe" 
next  morning  would  be  obliged,  in  the  interest  of 
truth,  to  omit  from  "among  those  present"  at  Sylvia's 
contribution  to  the  excitements  of  Rossacre,  the  name 
of  Mrs.  Branstane.  Fate  not  in  the  amiable  person 
of  Sylvia,  who  rather  approved  the  sensation  of  uplift, 
but  of  Sylvia's  mother.  That  excellent  and  well-fed 
lady,  when  approached  at  the  last  moment  with 
Annabel's  earnest,  not  to  say  eloquent,  appeal  in 
behalf  of  her  duenna,  had  balked,  in  some  indignation. 

"So  that 's  what  they  learn  at  school,  these  days!" 
she  sniffed,  in  summary  dismissal  of  any  such  wild 
scheme  of  social  regeneration. 

And  so,  since  the  words  necessary  to  Annabel's 
mixed  emotions  were  not  in  her  immediate  vocabu- 
lary, she  went  to  the  piano,  with  her  cloak  still  about 
her  shoulders,  and  played  first  something  highly 
heroic,  from  Beethoven,  and  then  something  excruci- 
atingly   melancholy,    from    Chopin.      Never    had    her 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  159 

finishing-school  education  served  such  a  practical 
purpose  before. 

Penning,  seated  crosswise  on  one  of  the  Judge's  pet 
Queen  Anne  chairs,  his  coat  folded  across  his  lap,  to 
mark  the  highly  temporary  nature  of  his  lingering, 
gently  smiled  at  the  swaying  back  of  the  girl,  bowed 
as  it  were  under  its  first  touch  of  the  weary  weight  of 
our  world. 

When  she  had  thundered  sufficient  indignation  out 
of  the  piano,  and  dwindled  off  into  mere  pianissimo 
mumbling  with  the  keys,  he  said  to  her  quietly,  with 
his  chin  resting  on  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"Want  me  to  tell  you  what's  the  matter  —  with 
all  of  us?  I  see  it  in  every  person  here  that  I  know, 
—  and  don't  know.  We  're  all  herded  inside  a  pen 
that 's  too  small  for  us.  We  never  see  or  do  anything 
big.  .  .  .  Do  I  bore  you?"    he  hauled  up  quickly. 

Annabel  continued  to  bend  over  the  keys  and 
commune  with  them  lightly. 

"Funny  little  town!"  He  dropped  his  chin  again 
upon  his  fist  on  the  back  of  the  chair.  "But  a  charm- 
ing place.  I  think  it 's  only  in  a  town  like  this  that 
people  dare  to  be  themselves.  That,  I  suppose,  is 
because  we  live  so  much  on  top  of  each  other  that 
anything  not  genuine  dies  a  mighty  quick  death! 
And  yet — "  Penning  looked  up  at  Annabel's  pretty 
maiden  shoulders.  "God  pity  a  spirit  that  happens 
to  be  larger  than  the  town!  That  means  nearly 
everybody  here.  But  especially  — you."  He  paused 
for  some  possible  response.  "Time  and  again  I've 
heard  you  plead  for  'something  to  do,  something  to 
do!'"  — he  imitated  her  tone  as  she  was  accustomed 
to  plead  it.  "Anything  to  do!  in  short."  He  began 
to  laugh   at  her   gently.     "Things,   sometimes,   that 


160  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

may  not  be  quite  possible?"  He  was  rising  to  go, 
feeling  sure  of  his  point.  "Well,"  he  finished,  "when- 
ever you  are  taken  that  way,  don't  —  don't  take  it 
too  hard.     Give  in.     We  all  have  to." 

To  that  there  was  a  quite  possible  verbal  response. 
Annabel  wheeled  about  on  the  bench  before  the  piano, 
and  rose  swiftly  and  came  to  him. 

"0-oh!" — she  grasped  both  his  hands,  —  "you  — 
you  always  make  me  understand  —  everything!" 
And  she  kissed  him.  "But  wait!"  She  hesitated, 
for  the  characteristic  generosity  in  her,  always  a 
light  sleeper,  was  instantly  awake.  "May  I  —  may 
I  tell  that  to  Brannie.*^  I  think  it  will  help  her  too. 
Say  yes!  .  .  .  0-oh!"  she  ended  abruptly,  for  over 
Penning's  shoulder  she  saw  Mrs.  Branstane  appear  in 
the  broad  hall  doorway. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  that  lady  said,  though  she 
made  no  pretense  of  withdrawing.  "I  thought  you 
had  finished,  and  I  came  in  to  turn  out  the  lights." 

And  when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Penning  contrived 
to  achieve  his  exit,  Annabel  was  still  consoling  her 
faithful  duenna.  "0-oh,  Brannie,  I'm  so  sorry! 
I  'm  so  disgusted  with  this  stupid  little  town!  It 's 
too  small  for  us,  that's  what  it  is!"  he  heard  her 
paraphrasing  his  philosophy  as  he  closed  the  door 
behind  him  almost  unnoticed. 

Often  the  destinies  of  persons  turn  upon  very  small 
hinges.  Had  Annabel  brought  her  consolations  to 
Mrs.  Branstane  an  hour  or  two  earlier,  they  would 
have  met  such  a  fury  of  rage  and  disappointment  as 
would  have  killed  once  for  all  whatever  was  charitable 
in  Annabel.  As  it  was,  at  that  hour,  Mrs.  Branstane's 
indignation  at  her  slight   had  somewhat  abated.     It 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  161 

may  be,  too,  that  Mr.  Penning's  remarks  had  been 
helpful  to  the  understanding  of  Mrs.  Branstane  also. 

"/^n't  it  a  stupid  town!"  Annabel  raged,  and  kissed 
the  lady. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Branstane  drawled,  "it  isn't  your 
fault.     You  can't  just  boss  the  town." 

"You  wait!"  Annabel  answered  hotly,  forgetfully, 
incorrigibly.  "I  don't  blame  you  for  losing  faith  in 
me.  But  wait  and  see!  I  '11  get  up  a  party  of  my 
own,  right  here  in  this  house  —  expressly  for  you.  I 
should  have  done  that  in  the  first  place,  only  I  was  in 
a  hurry  and  thought  Sylvia  would  help  right  away. 
But  you  wait  and  see  if  I  don't  have  my  way,  in  my 
own  home!" 

"But"  —  Mrs.  Branstane  smiled  —  "your  father?" 

At  that  reference  Annabel  moved  back  and  sat 
down  on  a  wide  old  sofa,  and  began  toying  thought- 
fully with  the  folds  of  her  filmy  white  dress.  Sud- 
denly she  tossed  her  head  of  glorious  hair  and  lifted 
two  brimming  eyes  to  Mrs.  Branstane. 

For  days  Annabel  had  been  fretted  about  the  Judge, 
about  his  haggard  appearance,  his  laggard  air.  For 
weeks  he  had  been  distant  and  unapproachable,  in  a 
preoccupation  that  was  unwonted  in  him. 

"I  —  I  hadn't  thought  of  father,"  the  girl  said. 
"Of  course  I  could  win  him  over.  But  I  hate  to 
pester  him  now.  He  doesn't  look  well.  Have  you 
noticed  it.^*" 

Mrs.  Branstane  laughed  softly,  and  came  and 
patted  Annabel's  head.  "Good  night,"  she  said,  and 
then  disappeared.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  Annabel's  perplexities  over  her 
father  resolved  themselves  into  a  highly  practical 
devotion  to  their  housekeeper.     Since  there  seemed  to 


162  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

be  no  other  immediate  means  for  her  social  salvation, 
Annabel  fell  to  and  helped  sweeten  and  lighten  her 
housework,  and  together  they  made  a  lark  of  Mrs. 
Branstane's  morning  duties.  And  if  the  present 
offered  no  ready  means  for  further  service,  there 
certainly  was  no  end  to  the  future  plans  that  An- 
nabel drew  up  for  Mrs.  Branstane's  behoof.  It  was 
all  right  to  give  in,  but  only  when  one  had  to. 

And  so,  still  once  more  the  world  was  to  be  made 
over,  this  time  by  a  confident  girl. 

With  the  usual  results. 

All  these  light-hearted  intentions  of  Annabel,  Mrs. 
Branstane  took  to  her  room  and  filed  away  seriously. 
To  her  the  most  casual,  the  most  off-hand  promise, 
the  merely  accidental  outburst  of  generosity,  became 
an  iron  contract,  a  Shylock's  bond,  eternally  re- 
membered and  eternally  bound  to  fulfilment. 

It  so  happened,  moreover,  that  in  still  another 
quarter  of  the  city  the  regeneration  of  the  world  was 
on  foot  that  morning  —  again  at  the  practical  hands 
of  the  young,  as  might  be  expected. 

Mr.  Walker  P.  Landis,  seated  in  his  glass-enclosed 
private  office  in  his  bank  in  Poplar  Street,  frowned 
savagely  over  a  visiting  card  handed  in  by  his  secre- 
tary.    The  paper  bore  the  name  of 

MR.    JOHN    SHERIDAN    BROOKES 

"Tell  him  I  'm  out!"  he  snapped,  and  turned  to 
his  morning  correspondence. 

Scarcely  had  he  dispatched  the  annoying  intrusion 
when  our  friend  Sherry  presented  himself  without 
ceremony  within  the  glass  cage,  jaunty,  debonair, 
handsome,  smartly  dressed,  and  breathing  from  every 


r 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  163 

line  and  from  every  move  of  his  being  the  fact  of 
his  entire  ease  of  mind. 

"How  did  you  get  in  here!"  Landis  growled  and 
scowled.  Already  he  was  framing  a  smashing  repri- 
mand for  his  huge  doorman. 

"I  didn't  learn  to  play  'end'  for  nothing,"  Sherry 
smiled. 

"Oh,  always  our  'deah  Haw-vud'!"  Landis  laughed 
roughly.  "Well,  what's  your  business?  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  I  've  nothing  to  lend  you." 

"I'm  going  to  lend  something  to  you.  A  bit  of 
advice,"  Sherry  said  with  invincible  good  nature,  and 
without  invitation  seated  himself  easily  in  the  arm- 
chair ready  for  suppliants  at  the  august  banker's 
desk.  "I  think  it  wiU  interest  you,"  the  boy  added, 
with  a  forgiving  smile. 

"I  'm  sure  it  won't.  I  waste  no  words,  and  I  say, 
get  out." 

Sherry  leaned  forward,  more  amiably  than  ever, 
and  said,  "You've  probably  noticed  that  I  spend  as 
little  time  as  possible  with  you.^*" 

Landis  rose.     "I  said,  get  out." 

"As  soon  as  I  possibly  can,  you  may  be  sure.  But 
business  first.  Are  you  going  to  pull  off  that  dirty 
little  low-down  deal  on  Senator  Banks.*^" 

"I  don't  understand  you!" 

"You  didn't  say  that  as  loudly  as  usual.  So  you 
do  understand  me.  Are  you  going  to  keep  all  that 
property?     Or  turn  it  back,  as  gentlemen  do?" 

"What  I  do  is  not  for  you,  my  boy.  I  've  a  legal 
right  to  that  property.  And  it 's  my  duty  to  keep  it. 
My  duty  to  the  stock-holders.  To  the  widows  and 
orphans  — " 

"Drop  all  the  nonsense.     Are  you  going  to  do  it?" 


164  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Nothing  can  stop  me  if  I  choose." 

"One  moment."  Sherry  edged  forward  on  his 
chair.  "Maybe  the  law  can't  stop  you.  But  some- 
thing else  can." 

"Not  you,  certainly!  For  all  you're  the  great 
Sherry  Brookes.  There  are  new  Sherry  Brookeses  in 
town,  you  may  as  well  know!" 

"There's  only  one  owner  of  The  Globe  in  town. 
Perhaps  you  've  heard  that  I  've  just  bought  the 
paper?" 

Landis  sat  down.  And  leaned  his  elbows  on  his 
desk.  Two  red  spots,  indicating  mental  activity,  had 
appeared  on  his  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  his 
grey  eyes,  planted  close  together.  Sherry  observed  as 
he  never  had  before,  peered  narrowly  at  his  visitor. 

"Blackmail,  eh?"  Landis  spoke  that  out  loud  and 
strong. 

"No."  Sherry  likewise  spoke  out  loud  and  strong. 
"Publicity." 

"Ah,  publicity!"  Landis  tried  a  touch  of  irony, 
albeit  in  a  lower  tone.  He  fiddled  with  his  watch- 
chain  while  he  thought.  His  hand  trembled.  He 
was  in  a  rage.  "You  mean  that  as  a  threat,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Oh,  rot!"  Sherry  laughed.  "I  never  bother  to 
threaten.  That 's  a  waste  of  time.  A  waste  of 
courtesy!" 

The  flush  on  Landis's  face  had  deepened  fairly  to 
the  purple  of  rage.  "So?"  he  sneered  in  a  nasal 
tone.  "I  see.  The  idea  is.  What  are  your  advertising 
rates?     Isn't  it?" 

Sherry  sighed.  "I  suppose,  when  one  tackles  a  rat, 
one  has  to  put  up  with  a  rat.  If  I  followed  my  in- 
stincts I  'd  have  pounded  you  to  a  jelly  before  now. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  165 

But  I  '11  say  this.  You  '11  get  plenty  of  advertising, 
and  you  '11  get  it  free.  I  '11  write  it  myself.  Pro- 
vided, of  course" — he  rose  —  "you  supply  me  with 
anything  to  write  about.  If  you  think  better  of  your 
little  scheme,  I  '11  let  you  severely  alone.  Not  be- 
cause you  can  frighten  me,  but  because  you  can't 
interest  me." 

Landis  also  rose  from  his  chair.  "Damn  your 
impudence!  What  brings  you  meddhng  in  old  Banks's 
affairs?" 

By  an  almost  imperceptible  step  Sherry  brought 
himself  stiU  closer  to  Landis  and  smiled  down  into  his 
face.  "I  'd  see  you  in  Hades  on  any  account — just 
for  the  public  good,"  he  said  quietly.  "It's  enough 
for  you  that  I  generously  warn  you  to  think  things 
over  before  you  ply  your  little  arts.  But  if  you  really 
want  to  know,  Senator  Banks  is  about  to  become  my 
father-in-law."     And  he  turned  toward  the  door. 

Landis  watched  him  withdraw.  "Son-in-law  be 
damned!"  he  was  thinking  —  thinking  of  his  clever 
secretary  Irvin  Crist.  And  presently  his  thoughts 
would  have  burned  their  way  into  appropriate  speech. 

But  Sherry  had  vanished,  rudely,  in  a  breeze  of 
laughter,  and  hastened  away,  quite  certain  of  having 
dealt  very  effectively  and  finally  with  that  particular 
annoyance. 

That  evening  Sherry  suffered  no  surprise  as 
Penning  joined  him  in  another  roar  of  laughter  when 
he  heard  the  episode  retailed.  It  was  rather  the  fact 
of  the  violence,  and  the  long  continuance  of  Pen- 
ning's  laughter,  that  brought  the  surprise  to  Sherry. 

"Oh,  well,  Socrates!"  he  finally  complained.  "I 
suppose  you  could  have  done  a  heap  better!" 

"Oh,  you've  —  you've  settled  the  matter!"    Pen- 


166  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

ning  discovered  he  had  breath  enough  to  say.  "Sherry, 
my  lad"  — he  shook  his  head  over  his  friend  —  even 
patted  the  boy's  back  —  and  the  old  irony  appeared 
—  "I  used  to  think  well  of  your  powers.  But  now 
you  make  me  think  — " 

"Damned  pacifist!"  Sherry  made  the  highly  logical 
retort. 

"Now  you  make  me  think  of  Mr.  Roosevelt  in  the 
act  of  preventing  a  war," 

However,  Sherry,  with  a  hearty  sniff,  had  thumped 
out  of  the  room. 

Behind  him  he  left  Penning  in  a  brown  study.  "I 
wonder  if  Banks  — "  he  mused.  And  then  the  final  de- 
cision, "Oh,  Banks  can  be  trusted  to  take  care  of 
himself." 


CHAPTER  VI 

POSSIBLY  no  form  of  literature  is  so  eagerly 
consumed  in  Rossacre  as  the  liberal  space  in 
the  local  prints  consecrated  to  the  movements  of 
"Society."  Far  from  taking  affront  at  the  better  for- 
tunes of  the  quality  folk  —  elsewhere  too  often  regarded 
with  dislike  and  distrust  —  good  Rossacrats  are  only 
too  proud  and  too  grateful  to  have  by  them  these 
personages  who  do  so  much  to  lend  interest  and  inci- 
dent to  life. 

Hence  the  whole  town  pricked  up  its  ears,  about 
then,  when  The  Globe  one  day  announced  the  inten- 
tions of  Judge  Gayland  toward  a  visit  to  Old  Point 
Comfort,  in  the  company  of  his  family.  For  a  long 
time  the  whole  city  had  wondered  at  the  Judge's 
weary  appearance,  and  now  wondered  even  more 
when,  at  a  busy  season,  with  a  political  campaign 
already  belated,  the  honoured  jurist  left  home  "for 
a  period  of  rest." 

Miss  Annabel  herself  wondered  —  though  Mrs. 
Branstane  did  not  —  why  she  could  not  induce  her 
father  to  travel  farther  than  the  Virginia  resort,  when 
she  had  used  every  persuasion  to  urge  him  at  least 
as  far  as  Miami. 

For  Mrs.  Branstane  herself,  during  this  period  of 
his  rest,  the  Judge  had  privately  planned  an  outing 
in  another  locality;  but  Annabel's  importunities  in 
the  woman's  behalf  were  not  to  be  withstood,   and 


168  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Branstane  went  along  to  Old  Point,  and  even 
shared  Miss  Annabel's  rooms  at  The  Chamberlain. 

In  their  final  preparations  Mr.  Penning  naturally 
made  himself  invaluable.  In  a  very  nice  manner,  it 
happened,  the  whole  arrangement  fell  in  with  plans 
of  his  own.  A  bit  of  business  in  Boston,  for  some 
time  urgent,  might  as  well  have  his  attention  at  that 
convenient  season.  Thence  he  was  to  return  to 
Bossacre  in  time  to  open  the  Gayland  mansion  and 
mobilise  its  servants  in  time  for  their  return.  And 
in  the  main  this  programme  was  fully  observed,  though 
with  unexpected  variations. 

For  years  it  had  been  a  matter  of  pride  with  Judge 
Gayland  to  visit,  each  winter  and  each  summer,  a 
new  quarter  of  the  globe.  This  winter,  for  reasons 
that  will  be  clear  to  any  political  intelligence,  he  was 
curtailing  his  absence  and  limiting  his  travels.  For 
now,  as  Mrs  Branstane  had  more  than  openly  hinted, 
the  Judgeship,  once  the  merest  amusement  to  him, 
an  idle  honour,  had  become  a  stern  necessity  to  the 
Gayland  income,  with  its  salary  of  an  additional 
$4,800.  And  even  so  the  Judge's  plans  were  going 
badly. 

In  the  first  place  the  Judge,  with  his  habitual 
slackness,  had  let  things  drift  into  this  first  week  of 
October,  without  a  stroke  of  practical  political  en- 
deavour in  his  own  behalf.  Or  it  may  be,  that  see- 
ing no  one  in  opposition  save  an  old  lawyer,  of  no 
great  weight  and  of  merely  Democratic  leanings,  the 
Judge  had  confidently  counted  on  the  compliment  of 
re-election. 

In  any  case,  their  little  outing  brought  to  Mrs. 
Branstane  dangerously  intoxicating  zephyrs  out  of 
Paradise.     In   Bossacre,   where  everybody  knew  the 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  169 

pedigree  of  everybody,  Mrs.  Branstane  had  found  her 
status  as  fixed  as  steel.  In  the  great  hotel,  in  its 
motley  community,  Mrs.  Branstane  met  folk  on  terms 
of  careless  equality.  And  immediately  she  brightened. 
Passing  casually  as  a  friend  of  the  Gaylands,  as  she 
always  did  in  Annabel's  calculated  introductions,  Mrs. 
Branstane  blossomed  with  all  her  might.  Blossomed 
actually.  Annabel  was  proud  of  her  vassal's  achieve- 
ments. Turn  her  over  as  hopeless?  Miss  Annabel 
thought  not.  It  was  a  thing  proved  —  to  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane doubly  proved  —  that  Mrs.  Branstane  could 
rise  and  shine,  precisely  as  she  had  always  suspected 
she  could.  And  she  lost  no  occasion  for  pointing 
this  out  to  the  Judge,  Certainly  it  was  no  fault  of 
hers  if  he  failed  to  mark  the  contrast  between  her 
estate  then  and  the  years  of  her  "slavery"  in  his 
house. 

"You  cad!"  she  once  said  to  him  in  private.  "Why 
didn't  you  bring  me  here  before!  Instead  of  let- 
ting me  rot  in  your  kitchen!  When  even  Annabel's 
school-boy  friends  could  see  what  I  am!" 

And  it  may  be  that,  generously,  the  Judge  turned 
it  over  in  his  mind,  whether  he  had  been  as  generous 
as  duty,  appropriately  garbed  as  Mrs.  Branstane,  had 
demanded. 

Whatever  his  hypothetical  qualms  over  that,  there 
came  a  day  during  their  visit  when  all  other  matters 
fled  his  mind.  The  day  when  Sherry  Brookes's  new 
purchase.  The  Globe,  never  in  its  history  friendly  to 
Judge  Gayland,  appeared  as  usual  in  the  mail  —  this 
day  bringing  a  stunning  blow.  During  his  absence 
The  Globe  had  been  the  one  real  interest  of  the  Judge, 
with  its  news  of  what,  politically,  was  stirring  at 
home.     The  issue  of  that  afternoon  brought  him  very 


170  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

amazing  information.     Editorially  it'  trumpeted,  and 
without  previous  hint  or  introduction,  that 

After  due  deliberation  the  friends  of  the 
Hon.  Andrew  Penning  have  decided  to 
launch  his  campaign  for  the  nomination 

for  the  Judgeship  of  L County.    For 

all  they  know  his  candidacy  will  be  irresis- 
tible, Mr.  Penning's  friends  undertake  it 
with  misgivings.  Mr.  Penning  has  steadily 
—  but,  they  think,  mistakenly  —  objected 
to  the  use  of  his  name.     Nevertheless  — 

In  a  word,  Mr.  Penning's  friends  —  meaning,  of 
course,  Senator  Banks  —  were  bent  upon  braving  his 
displeasure  in  the  public  interest.  In  the  affairs  of 
any  man  there  was  sure  to  come  a  time  when  the 
community's  need  of  him  transcended  any  scruples 
of  his  own.     Mr.  Penning's  friends  felt.  .  .  . 

They  felt  many  things,  and  predicted  many  more. 

Altogether  it  made  a  pretty  column  in  The  Globe. 
And  the  later  papers  that  the  Judge  drew  from  his 
mail  —  and  quickly  hid  from  his  family  —  contained 
as  little  assurance  for  him.  They  all  pounded  the 
Penning  drum. 

Naturally,  in  all  this  business,  the  Judge  saw  the 
fine  political  hand  of  his  friend  Senator  Banks.  In 
his  absence  the  Senator  had  seen  his  opportunity. 
Whether  Penning,  and  the  absence  of  Penning,  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  business,  Gayland  could  not 
or  cared  not  to  figure.  Nevertheless,  and  with  a 
practised  eye,  he  could  see  the  dangers  for  him.  Be- 
ing not  altogether  a  fool,  he  could  diagnose,  with 
unfailing  skill,  the  situation  at  home. 

Everybody  in  Rossacre  was  aware  of  Penning's 
interest  in  his  daughter.     Every  one  of  them  would 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  171 

be  enthralled  by  the  drama  of  Penning's  rivalry, 
voluntary  or  not,  with  the  man  destined  to  be  his 
father-in-law.  And  everybody,  he  knew,  would  pray, 
and  vote,  for  the  success  of  the  younger  man,  the 
romantic  hero. 

So,  with  this  final  and  utterly  staggering  addition, 
the  Judge's  problems  reached  a  pitch  of  confusion  no 
longer  to  be  simplified  by  the  easy  expedient  of 
flight.  At  last  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  stand  and 
think.  Slowly  his  habitual  deceits  of  chatter  and 
pleasantry  before  his  family  were  bound  to  break  down 
at  last. 

And  so,  one  evening,  near  dusk,  Annabel  trapped 
him,  on  the  broad  piazza  of  the  hotel,  a  Rossacre 
newspaper  spread  over  his  knee,  and  his  eyes  vacantly 
sweeping  the  historic  roadstead.  It  happened  that  the 
hotel  crowd  was  elsewhere  interested,  and  she  kissed 
him,  and  crouched  down  on  the  floor  beside  his  knees, 
and  joined  him  in  dreamy  watch  over  the  bay.  For 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  perhaps,  they  remained  so;  and 
then  he  laid  a  hand  on  her  head  and  she  raised  her 
glance  suddenly,  in  alarm  at  his  trembling. 

"Father!"  she  cried.  " There 's  no  use  dissembling 
any  longer.  Something  is  —  and  something  has  been 
—  troubling  you.     What  is  it.*^" 

She  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"Don't  you  think  I  'm  a  good  enough  pal  of  yours 
to  know.^  Aren't  we  brethren  and  sistern  enough  for 
you  to  tell.^"  In  her  ignorance  of  his  difficulties  she 
could  stiU  cling  to  the  language  of  pleasantry. 

But  the  poor  man  stunned  his  daughter  when  he 
burst  into  tears. 

"Father!"  she  cried,  and  clung  to  his  knees.  "Oh, 
you  've  got  to  tell  me  now!" 


172  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Yes,"  he  faltered.  "It's  come  at  last.  I  can't 
hold  in  any  longer." 

When  they  had  controlled  themselves  the  Judge 
and  Annabel  wandered  out  along  the  parapet  of  the 
old  Fort,  to  be  alone.  Haltingly  the  father  told  his 
daughter  —  some  of  it,  but  not  all.  Chiefly  the 
financial  down-coming.  He  complained  of  no  one  but 
himself.  Of  Mrs.  Branstane  he  said  not  a  word. 
With  genuine  generosity  he  was  silent  on  that  score. 
He  knew  he  could  never  do  absolute  jjstice  to  the 
woman's  claims. 

And  so  he  contented  himself  with  "I  fear  I  haven't 
gauged  the  world  rightly  —  ever.  I  haven't  managed, 
somehow,  to  the  best  advantage." 

"But,  father!  Look  at  what  I've  done!  Oh,  I  see 
it  now !  And  I  '11  never  forgive  myself.  So  that  was 
why  you  wouldn't  give  me  a  greenhouse!  Or  why 
you  wouldn't  let  me  be  a  missionary,  or  a  nurse  I 
And  how  I  plagued  you  for  such  things!  You  dear  I 
.  .  .  And  how  patient  you  've  been!  I  see  it  now.  .  .  . 
That 's  why  you  wouldn't  go  to  Coronado  Beach 
and  rest.  You  couldn't!  .  .  .  And  I  am  to  blame. 
I  and  my  extravagances.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  haven't  been 
fair  to  yourself!  You  've  never  been  fair  to  your- 
self! You  've  never  had  your  due.  .  .  .  And  think 
how  I  must  have  bothered  you!  And  worried 
you!  .  .  .  And  you  never  complained.  What  a  man 
you  are!" 

She  stopped  their  slow  promenade,  and  stepped  in 
front  of  him,  and,  taking  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his 
coat,  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"In  spite  of  all,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  great  day  for 
me.  It  isn't  going  to  hurt  me  to  come  down  and 
live  like  a  sensible  person.     But  no  matter  what  it 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  173 

cost  me,  I  'd  give  a  thousand  times  more  to  know 
what  a  man  my  father  is." 

The  arms  slipped  about  the  father's  neck,  the  beau- 
tiful head  dropped  upon  his  shoulder.  "0-oh,  I  'm 
so  glad  to  have  found  you  out  at  last!" 

Along  the  parapet  they  walked  on.  From  somewhere 
over  Maryland  or  Pennsylvania  another  new  moon  hung 
pendant  and  dimly  lighted  their  faces,  even  as  they 
dimly  lit  up  their  lives  to  each  other.  In  his  relief  the 
Judge  was  almost  happy.  In  a  world  ordered  as  this 
one,  he  knew,  his  hunger  for  love  and  comprehension 
might  easily  have  had  to  die  without  this  sweetness  of 
discovery.    Surely  this  gain  was  worth  what  he  had  lost. 

"But  why,  oh,  why,  didn't  you  tell  us  all  along!" 
Annabel  once  demanded. 

And,  tingling  with  the  mingled  thrill  and  humilia- 
tion of  his  confession,  the  Judge  wondered  indeed 
why  he  had  not,  when  the  difficult  feat  had  turned 
out  to  be  so  simple  after  all. 

At  once,  of  course,  Annabel  was  prolific  in  schemes 
for  their  triumphant  restoration.  "Oh,  we'll  show 
that  town  a  thing  or  two!"  she  declaimed.  "The 
malicious  little  place!  It  shan't  have  a  chance  to 
assassinate  you  with  its  nasty  gossip!"  .  .  . 

For  all  that,  the  principal  thing  to  them  both  was 
that,  at  last,  after  many  empty  years,  father  and 
daughter  had  found  each  other.  And  for  all  the  pain 
of  it,  there  was  something  exalted  and  sacred  to 
Annabel  in  that  moment.  For  ever  the  years  of  her 
youth  and  of  her  ignorance  had  slipped  away  from  her 
and  she  knew  herself  to  be  a  woman. 

Nevertheless  the  liabilities  of  being  a  true  partner 
with  her  father  in  the  business  of  his  life  were  not 
long  to  be  spared  her. 


174  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"How  lucky  it  is,"  the  thought  occurred  to  her, 
"that  you  still  have  the  Judgeship!  It  will  tide  us 
over  so  nicely,  until  we  get  started  again!" 

And  so  the  Judge  had  to  tell  her  the  uttermost, 
the  worst  news  of  all.  .  .  . 

"That!  That  too  has  been  worrying  you!"  she 
cried  tlien.  She  stood  stock  still,  there  in  the  gather- 
ing darkness,  to  take  this  in.  "He — .  And  he 
could  come  to  our  house!  And  be  your  guest!  With 
that  sort  of  thing  in  his  heart!     0-oh!" 

In  vain  the  Judge  sought  to  explain  that  doubtless 
Mr.  Penning,  also  away  from  Rossacre,  had  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this  business.  Without  his  knowledge, 
it  was  evident,  his  friends  had  gone  forward  on  their 
own  responsibility.  In  any  event  Mr.  Penning  had 
probably  no  inkling  that  her  father  needed,  and  planned 
to  run  for,  the  Judgeship  again.      It  availed  nothing, 

Annabel  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and  blushed  for 
Penning.  "He  ought  to  have  made  sure!"  she 
decided.  "To  think  of  it!"  she  repeated,  over  and 
over  again. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  astounded  her  comforter  and 
started  forward  toward  the  hotel,  in  a  great  state  of 
excitement. 

"Come  on,  Dad;  come  on!"  she  cried.  "We'll 
show  him!  If  he  wants  a  fight  he  can  have  it!  I 
hate  that  man!"  Off  over  Pennsylvania,  or  in  the 
general  direction  of  "that  man,"  she  shook  her  small 
fist.     "Br-r-r!     I  hate  him!     I  hate  him!" 

The  man  who  had  earned  the  sneers  of  Rossacre 
had  found  his  champion  at  last,  who  glorified  him 
and  his  mistaken  life  till  he  was  obliged  to  clog  her 
unearned  eulogies  with  a  kiss. 

"Oh,  we  '11  soon  have  those  cheeks  filled  out  again!" 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  175 

the  girl  was  gloating.  "And  you!  You!"  again  she 
hurled  her  contempt  northward,  "I  loathe  and  de- 
spise you!" 

And  not  did  the  poor,  bungling  masculine  mind  of 
the  father  come  to  its  senses  till  the  daughter,  very 
shaky  in  her  own  senses  just  then,  had  fallen  very 
limp,  in  her  mixed  merriment  and  grief,  in  his  arms. 

The  Judge,  much  frightened,  carried  her  back  to 
the  hotel,  and  they  put  her  to  bed  in  a  fever,  and  had 
a  doctor,  and  kept  her  there  tiU  the  excitement  had 
abated.     And  a  very  badly  torn  Annabel  she  was. 

They  quartered  Mrs.  Branstane  elsewhere  that  night, 
and  gave  Annabel  the  solitude  and  the  sedatives  that 
she  pointedly  required.  The  lowered  estate  that  lay 
before  them,  the  gilding  that  was  gone  from  their 
grandeur  —  that  was  nothing.  The  thing  that  ailed 
her  was  something  different. 

Young  things  like  Annabel,  when  they  love,  never 
deliberately  select;  they  lightly  gravitate,  they  be- 
stow themselves,  by  some  wisdom  that  is  subtler 
than  reason,  like  the  seed  that  alights  where  the 
prodigal  breezes  leave  it,  and  there  glorifies  the  fortu- 
nate spot  where  it  falls.  Only,  in  the  human  weed 
there  is  apt  to  be  mind,  and  the  capacity  to  be  hurt, 
when  the  spot  where  it  falls  is  found  to  be  of  rocks 
and  thorns. 

So  Annabel  tossed  on  her  bed  that  night,  in  sleep- 
less mortification.  Something  in  her  that  was  very 
intimate  and  precious  had  been  outraged.  All  the 
rumours  she  had  heard,  of  "his"  prejudices  for  Sylvia, 
of  his  stepping  aside  for  Sherry,  all  the  recollections, 
all  the  occasions  of  her  confident  trust  in  his  silent 
but  evident  honesty,  came  back  to  her.  And  mocked 
her.     She  did  him  full  credit,  too.     After  all,  it  was 


176  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

clear,  he  had  made  the  best  pretense  he  could  of 
accepting  gracefully  what  had  been  —  most  torturing 
recollection  of  all  —  thrust  upon  him. 

Well  —  as  clocks  told  the  hours  —  she  thought  of 
a  way  of  raising  the  value  of  a  stuff  that  she  had 
dispensed  too  cheaply.  It  might  be  that  "he"  was 
only  stupid.  Oh,  she  was  fair  to  him.  Only  then, 
when  it  was  broken,  did  she  measure  the  love  she  had 
had  for  him,  a  love  that,  even  in  its  shame,  refused 
to  think  altogether  ill  of  its  object.  So  women  gild 
in  their  minds  the  image  of  the  unworthy. 

Still,  even  if  he  were  honest  in  a  stupid,  lumbering, 
superficial,  masculine  sort  of  way,  inwardly,  and  be- 
fore a  court  that  decided  upon  evidence  subtler  and 
more  telltale  than  the  practical,  he  had  not  been 
honest.  He  had  broken  his  contract.  And  so  she 
would  go  back,  and  at  whatever  cost  to  her  pride  she 
would  walk  boldly  before  him,  and  show  him  she  was 
not  to  be  taken  at  any  such  figure  as  he  supposed. 

So  it  was  that  on  the  following  afternoon,  in  despite 
of  the  doctor's  orders,  Annabel  insisted  upon  rising, 
and  commanded  their  immediate  and  compendious 
departure  for  home.  It  was  only  senseless  and  silly, 
she  argued,  their  piling  up  further  expense  where 
they  were,  with  such  pressing  political  business  at 
home  —  not  to  think  of  the  financial  strains  which 
she  forebore  to  mention. 

At  home  the  Hon.  Andrew  Penning  that  day 
arrived  from  his  own  business  in  Boston,  and  al- 
lowed himself  a  deal  of  concern  at  the  failure  of  the 
mails  from  Virginia.  Not  a  wire,  not  a  note,  not 
even  a  card,  awaited  him,  with  notification  of  the 
precise  day  when  he  might  open  the  house.     Instead, 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  177 

Berkeley  interrupted  his  belated  dinner  at  the  Club, 
and  very  seriously  confounded  him  with  a  request  for 
the  keys  and  the  news  that  the  Gaylands  would 
return  next  morning,  a  whole  five  days  before  their 
scheduled  time. 

A  little  later  that  evening,  as  he  tried  what  he  could 
to  fill  in  an  evening  of  misery  made  all  the  more  acute 
by  the  absence  of  Sherry  and  the  Senator  on  their 
hunting  excursion,  the  Hon.  Andrew  came  upon  a 
clue  to  the  various  mysteries  encompassing  him, 
when,  in  the  Club  library,  he  leafed  over  the  more 
recent  back  issues  of  The  Globe.  A  few  curious  mem- 
bers, alert  to  the  situation  and  curious  to  witness  the 
probable  capers  of  the  Hon.  Andrew  when  he  became 
alert  to  it  himself,  were  able  to  report  to  their  friends 
his  immediate  and  vehement  rush  from  the  Club. 
And  it  is  a  simple  matter  of  record  that  his  bed  went 
another  night  undisturbed,  though  perhaps  no  one 
is  in  the  secret  of  the  dust  he  kicked  up  on  the  country 
roads  leading  away  from  the  small  city.  Nor  of  the 
thoughts  he  entertained  of  his  friend  the  Senator. 

Whatever  his  movements  on  the  night  before,  in 
the  morning  the  loafing  population  of  Rossacre,  ac- 
customed to  treat  itself  to  a  breath  of  the  outer 
world  by  a  faithful  welcome  to  all  incoming  trains, 
marked  the  figure  of  Penning  among  them  in  the 
trainshed  easily  twenty  minutes  before  the  regular 
arrival  of  the  Limited,  threading  his  way  about 
oblivious  to  the  comment  caused  by  his  antic  pre- 
occupation. For  everybody  knew  or  easily  imagined 
why  he  was  there. 

When  at  last,  with  indispensable  hiss  of  steam  and 
clang  of  bell,  the  train  pulled  in,  he  rushed  back  to 
the  Pullman  as  a  matter  of  course.     Yet  in  passing 


178  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

the  last  of  the  day  coaches  what  was  his  petrification 
to  mark  Annabel  Gayland  struggling  down  the  steps 
unassisted,  with  an  enormous  bag. 

"Ah!"  he  cried,  and  reached  to  relieve  her. 

Down  the  steps  she  struggled,  one  at  a  time,  and 
before  the  assembled  crowd  she  stepped  aside,  though 
she  glanced  at  him  casually,  as  at  any  obstruction, 
and  —  passed  on. 

After  her  plodded  her  father,  without  benefit  of 
porter,  with  a  bag  of  his  own.  Being  also  without 
feminine  prejudice,  he  administered  his  head  in  a 
feeble  nod.  Only  Mrs.  Gayland  paused  and  said  in 
her  usual  manner, 

"Why,  how  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Penning.  Aren't  you 
surprised  to  see  us  travelling  in  a  common  coach? 
It 's  some  new  freak  of  Annabel's." 

Penning,  however,  had  moved  away. 

"Aren't  you  coming  along  with  us.^>"  Mrs.  Gay- 
land raised  her  voice,  herself  now  puzzled  and  seeking 
to  reconcile  in  her  own  mind  the  astonishing  mystery 
of  her  husband  and  Annabel  rushing  ahead,  and 
Penning  turning  away  with  such  a  very  odd  expres- 
sion on  his  face. 

Over  every  act  and  every  word,  meanwhile,  the 
crowd  grouped  about  almost  audibly  indicated  its 
excitement. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  Penning  contrived  to  stammer, 
and  quickly  faded  away. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THAT  evening  many  a  cup  of  tea  cooled  away 
untasted  on  Rossacre  tables.  In  gratitude  to 
Mr.  Penning.  When  the  public  press  of  the 
city  was  of  custom  a  whole  day  later  than  common 
rumour  in  circulating  the  most  ordinary  affairs  of  the 
town,  half  an  hour  is  a  liberal  allowance  for  the 
general  spread  of  this  choice  news  of  Penning  and 
Miss  Annabel. 

Lincoln  Avenue,  as  might  be  supposed,  when  it 
heard  the  reports,  inclined  toward  conflicting  views, 
divided  chiefly  according  to  sex. 

"He  got  what  was  coming!"  a  few  of  the  boys 
argued. 

"She's  a  fool!"    the  feminine  contingent  decided. 

MiUigan  Street  clove  to  opinions  of  its  own.  "Thot 
fool  gurrl!  To  trate  Misther  Penning  like  thot! 
Such  doin's  won't  putt  many  dollars  in  her  faather's 
bank  —  nor  stringthen  his  naame  at  iliction!" 

Parker,  favourite  waiter  at  the  Club,  soon  had  tales 
to  tell  of  Mr.  Penning's  indifferent  zest  at  the  table; 
and  the  boy  in  his  office  reported, 

"He  don't  answer  nothin'  to  wot  you  ast  him." 

To  Rossacre  this  was  every  bit  as  good  as  a  play, 
in  real  life,  right  there  in  the  open.  No  one  had  ever 
presented  to  Rossacre  such  a  varied  interest,  so  many 
absorbing  problems  as  Mr.  Penning.  No  one  had 
confirmed  so  many  prophecies,  or  confounded  so  many 
theories.     Nobody's  existence  had  been  so  minutely 


180  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

studied.  No  one  was  so  roundly  admired,  so  hotly 
hated.  And  even  whil§  it  hated,  Rossacre  admired 
him.  He  performed  such  a  charitable  service;  he 
lent  so  much  incident  to  life!  And  by  nightfall  of 
that  day  the  whole  town  was  in  possession  of  every 
smallest  detail  that  had  figured  —  and  of  a  thousand 
and  one  details  which  had  not  figured  —  in  that 
dramatic  episode  centring  about  the  morning  train. 
Like  a  great  audience  the  little  city  sat  by  to  watch 
this  spectacle  —  The  Lady  or  the  Judgeship,  with 
Mr.  Penning  as  hero  —  and  even  placed  bets  on  the 
outcome. 

Oh,  they  were  stirring  days,  those  of  that  cam- 
paign! Early  that  October  "the  situation"  opened 
when  the  gathering  woes  of  Judge  Gayland  were 
augmented  by  the  calamity  of  the  Democratic  nomina- 
tion. Though  the  one  logical  nominee  for  either 
party,  so  a  sapient  press  informed  the  voters,  was  the 
Hon.  Andrew  Penning,  sometime  mayor  of  Rossacre, 
once  District  Attorney,  and  always  Republican,  the 
Party  of  Protest,  in  the  plenitude  of  their  wisdom 
early  and  brilliantly  hit  upon  the  Hon.  Ira  Gayland 
for  their  candidate,  known  to  have  been  stoutly  Demo- 
cratic at  convenient  times  in  the  past,  though  stead- 
fastly Republican  in  the  privacy  of  the  balloting 
booth. 

Loudly  did  Gayland  bewail  this  ghastly  occurrence, 
which  menaced  his  nomination  by  the  Republicans, 
and  virtually  threw  the  Judgeship  into  the  hands  of 
Penning  —  if  he  wanted  it.  And  so,  with  ever  di- 
minishing sleep  and  appetite,  the  city  watched  this 
race  for  the  Lady  or  the  Judgeship. 

Little  knots  of  good  Rossacrats  began  to  collect  on 
the  street  corners,  and  argue,  and  bet,  and  wag  their 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  181 

heads  as  they  faced  this  solemn  duty  of  selecting  the 
man  who  should  for  ten  years  more  faithfully  hang 
their  murderers  and  preside  at  their  fights  over  wills. 
Troops  of  Penning's  friends  began  knocking  at  his 
door.  Reporters  wore  a  path  up  the  Lincoln  Club 
stairs  by  day;  their  editors  trod  it  deeper  at  even, 
and  tried  their  powers  of  persuasion  upon  the  reticent 
man.  Clergymen  in  their  pulpits,  especially  the  Rev. 
Arthur  Wiggin,  pointedly  prayed  for  divine  inter- 
ference in  this  grave  matter,  and  openly  advised  Provi- 
dence of  their  preference  in  the  selection  of  a  just 
Judge.  Senator  Banks,  Boss  Banks,  self-constituted 
political  manager  to  Penning,  was  never  willingly  out 
of  earshot  of  his  charge,  lest  some  dread  nobleness  in 
Penning  should  get  the  upper  hand  and  impel  him 
to  withdraw.  The  poor  stout  little  man  ate  with 
the  silent  Penning,  walked  with  the  silent  Penning, 
on  his  fearful  and  philosophical  wanderings  over  the 
early  October  hills.  Freely  and  cheerfully  the  Senator 
perspired,  in  devotion  to  his  purpose  and  his  pet. 
He  dogged  the  taciturn  man  to  bed,  and  gave  him 
no  moment  in  which  to  harbour  a  single  idea  save 
the  eminently  sensible  one  of  accepting  the  Judgeship. 
"By  gad.  Penning!"  he  would  say,  reckless  as  ever 
with  his  metaphors,  "if  you'll  just  shut  your  eyes 
and  swallow  this  one  little  pill,  you  've  got  the 
Governorship  in  your  pocket  right  round  the  corner. 
In  three  years  you  '11  be  resigning  from  this  little  job 
and  taking  that.  Then  a  chair  in  the  Senate  —  the 
one  in  Washington,  I  mean.  After  that,  anything, 
anything!  Why,  man  alive,  they  '11  snow  you  under 
with  a  perfect  avalanche  of  votes.  If  you  '11  only  take 
this  little  job  as  a  starter,  there  isn't  anything  you 
can't  have!     All  we  've  got  to  do,  you  see,  is  to  get 


182  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

you  out  where  the  people  can  really  have  a  good  look 
at  you.  You  've  been  hidden  too  long.  That 's  what 
I  had  in  mind  in  getting  up  this  little  affair.  You 
get  me?" 

To  all  this  Penning  listened  politely,  and  smiled. 

Of  late  years  he  had  begun  to  hate  the  little  city. 
None  was  so  willing  as  he  to  admit  what  he  owed  to 
it.  Thither  he  had  come  from  college,  on  Sherry 
Brookes's  recommendation,  to  make  full  use  of  it. 
And  dutifully  the  community  had  contributed  its 
humble  offerings  to  his  superiority.  Still,  on  that 
very  account  it  now  felt  a  partnership  in  his  fame, 
and  a  right  to  dictate  in  his  affairs.  And  how  could 
he  fairly  resent  it.*^  In  twelve  years  he  had  become 
Rossacre's  pet  —  and  Rossacre's  prisoner.  It  reached 
up  and  wrapped  its  pettiness  about  him.  It  rendered 
him  homage,  and  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  accept 
it.  It  was  always  raising  the  question  whether  he 
should  be  a  noble,  or  a  rising,  man.  "There  is  a 
tide,"  Rossacre  quoted,  and  confidently  left  the  rest 
to  Penning.  Forgetting  a  fact  which  the  poet  also 
neglected  to  specify  —  on  occasion  their  tide  may  be 
too  shocking  dirty  for  the  fastidious. 

It  was  these  things  that  Penning  pondered  on  his 
long  walks,  or  in  his  rooms,  or  at  his  meals. 

Indeed,  during  those  weeks,  the  little  metropolis 
felt  as  if  our  terrestrial  globe  must  surely  pause  and 
hold  its  breath  till  these  momentous  issues  were  settled. 

Our  terrestrial  globe,  however,  under  no  such  com- 
pulsion, rolled  on.  Days  passed.  All  too  rapidly  for 
Judge  Gayland.  And  with  the  passing  days  rolled 
the  tide  which  Rossacre  summoned  Penning  to  take 
at  the  flood. 

What   mattered  it   that   beyond   the  tide   Penning 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  183 

caught  glimpses  of  Miss  Annabel,  with  a  tottering 
father  to  champion,  outdoing  many  of  the  saints  and 
all  of  the  gods  that  guard  or  goad  the  weak  or  un- 
worthy? Never  did  Judge  Gayland  enter  his  house, 
his  home-coming  figure  never  appeared  in  the  street 
in  front  of  it,  but  his  daughter  flew  to  meet  him. 
Never  for  a  moment  was  he  permitted  to  see  her 
when  she  was  not  a  very  din  of  cheer  and  encourage- 
ment. Often  too  her  energies  found  astonishingly 
practical  outlets. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  laughed  to  him,  one  afternoon, 
hanging  on  his  arm  as  they  strolled  together  along 
the  path  from  the  Avenue  gateway  to  their  house; 
"your  know  our  dear  friends  the  Prendergasts?  — 
the  Mr.  Prendergast  who  is  assistant  street  commis- 
sioner, and  is  such  a  horrid  Democrat?  Well,  he  's  a 
power  in  his  ward  you  know,  and  —  and  I  feel  rather 
confident  that  he  is  going  to  vote  for  you.  That 's 
where  Berkeley  and  I  went  last  evening,  I  took  a 
big  basket  of  things  along  — " 

"Mercy  me!  What  next.  Miss  Politician!"  the 
Judge  was  fain  to  laugh  back. 

"Berkeley  carried  the  basket  for  me  to  their  door, 
and  then  waited  outside  while  I  went  in.  It  wouldn't 
have  done  to  hurt  Mr.  Prendergast's  tender  feelings 
with  a  sight  of  our  butler.  And  really,  I  had  great 
luck.  It  struck  me  the  minute  I  got  in  the  door  that 
I  'd  struck  the  wrong  place.  The  Prendergasts  would 
have  been  mortally  offended  by  any  hint  of  an  offer 
of  assistance.  So  I  quick  piped  up  and  told  Mrs. 
Prendergast  I  had  heard  of  the  low  estate  of  the 
Hennesseys,  but  I  didn't  know  where  they  lived,  and 
I  thought  anyway  they  might  be  proud  and  would  be 
offended  at  an  offer  of  help  —  wouldn't  Mr.  Prender- 


184  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

gast  help  me  over  the  difficulty?  I  said  I  was  a 
worker  for  the  Y.  W.  C.  A.,  and  that  of  course  we 
had  no  business  meddling  in  people's  affairs,  but  that 
sometimes  one  did  get  down  on  one's  luck  —  it  might 
happen  to  anybody  —  and  I  only  wanted  to  do  what 
I  hoped  somebody  would  want  to  do  for  me  some  day 
if  I  needed  it.  And  it  worked  beautifully.  I  hap- 
pened to  have  just  the  things  that  Mrs.  Prendergast 
said  the  Hennesseys  needed  —  though  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  Mrs.  Prendergast  took  a  little  commission 
out  of  the  basket,  for  her  children.  But  now  I  'm 
sure  of  Mr.  Hennessey,  too.  Because  I  met  Mrs. 
Hennessey.  Have  you  ever  seen  Mrs.  Hennessey? 
I  'm  sure  her  husband  is  in  the  habit  of  listening  to 
her  advice.  And  so  that 's  two  good  votes.  Isn't  it 
beautiful  .»^" 

Long  they  laughed  over  Annabel's  political  activi- 
ties. And  indeed  there  was  a  deal  that  the  girl 
could,  and  did,  do  among  certain  of  her  father's  old 
and  wavering  political  friends.  Wherever  she  went 
she  carried  herself  with  a  sweetness  that  accomplished 
more  than  a  trifle  to  restore  the  Judge  to  respect  — 
and  often  she  did  this  behind  a  carefully  hidden 
weariness  and  revulsion. 

At  home,  if  Annabel  had  her  griefs  —  and  daily 
now  she  was  coming  into  collision  with  a  hundred 
new  small  deprivations  —  she  kept  them  for  her  pil- 
low at  night,  or  left  them  locked  in  her  room.  Out- 
side her  door  she  trilled  good  cheer  the  livelong  day. 
Of  evenings  she  would  wheel  her  father's  favoured 
wing-chair  near  to  the  pianoforte,  would  turn  off  the 
lights,  save  the  mellow  cluster  over  his  head,  and 
then  play  him  his  tunes,  or  sing  him  the  songs  he 
preferred.     She  read  him  the  News,  which  favoured 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  185 

him,  and  trampled  under  foot  the  lukewarm  Globe, 
and  the  Bulletin  which  frankly  combated  him. 

On  his  own  part  the  Judge  did  his  best  to  respond 
to  this  counterfeit  angelhood  in  his  daughter,  and 
often,  not  to  wound  her,  feigned  a  difficult  gaiety  of 
his  own.  Yet  there  were  times  when  he  was  obliged 
to  excuse  himself,  and  had  to  leave  the  room  for  a 
space,  or  hasten  down  town,  as  it  was  easy  to  do, 
"on  business  connected  with  the  campaign,"  in  order 
to  hide  away  eyes  that  would  fill  at  the  spectacle 
Annabel  made,  valiantly  striving  to  tide  him  over 
his  crisis  and  blind  him  to  the  old  order  that  was 
vanished  for  ever. 

There  was  no  drug  of  filieJ  encouragement,  no 
opiate  of  music  and  laughter,  that  could  dull  the 
Judge  to  his  worries  then.  Himself  still  Judge,  there 
were  sharp  boundaries  to  his  going  out  into  the  politi- 
cal field  to  harrow  it  in  his  own  behalf.  And  so  the 
Judge  was  alive  to  his  perils  at  last.  They  meddled 
with  his  sleep  and  with  his  appetite,  they  wrecked 
his  health.  NaturaJly  the  pity  of  his  thinned  cheek, 
of  his  halting  steps,  the  lack-lustre  of  his  eye,  was  not 
lost  upon  Annabel  —  and  they  were  openly  remarked 
by  Mrs.  Branstane. 

Mrs.  Branstane  might  have  pitied,  and  neglected 
to  assert  herself,  at  least  until  after  this  troublous 
campaign.  But  no  such  scruples  hampered  Mrs. 
Branstane.  Her  eye,  and  her  tongue  as  well,  were 
sharpened  with  a  gathering  resentment. 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  irritated  by  Annabel's  own 
campaign  of  inspiriting  her  father.  Mrs.  Branstane 
began  to  have  no  Judge  to  harry  —  Annabel  was 
forever  intruding  with  her  everlasting  singing  and 
twitter.    Mrs.  Branstane's  social  advancement  was  not 


186  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

simply  halted,  but  the  failing  financial  prospects  of  the 
family  promised  her  nothing  more  of  that  sort  in  the 
future.  Most  annoying  of  all,  the  Judge  had  come  to 
be  stubbornly  stoical  under  his  housekeeper's  sway. 
Often  she  found  it  necessary  to  speak  to  him  with  point 
indeed,  to  reach  his  feehngs  at  all,  in  the  old  way. 

On  the  other  hand,  she  shocked  him,  at  times,  with 
some  streak  of  kindness,  as  she  marked  what  Anna- 
bel accomplished  by  such  means. 

"Well,  Ira!"  she  said  to  him,  one  evening  when 
Mrs.  Gayland  had  gone  melancholy  and  sighing  to 
bed,  when  Annabel  was  out  with  Berkeley  on  one  of 
her  sly  errands  among  the  enfranchised  poor;  "well, 
Ira!  You  don't  deserve  it,  but  I'm  willing  —  at 
least  I  've  been  thinking  of  —  of  drawing  some  of 
my  little  store  of  money  out  of  the  savings-bank  — 
and  —  and  lending  it  —  or  some  of  it,  to  you  —  since 
you  begin  to  need  it  so  much.  Only,  I  must  have 
security,  of  course.  It 's  all  I  've  got,  after  all  these 
years  of  drudgery.  And  Lord  knows,  you  're  none  too 
handy  about  taking  care  of  money.  If  you  go  to 
pieces  —  and  it  certainly  looks  as  if  you  would,  Ira! 
—  where  would  I  be?  Ho-ow  often  have  I  warned 
you!  You  must  give  me  security  —  I've  got  to  be 
protected.  But  I  know  well  enough  how  it  will  go. 
My-y  goodness,  man,  where  will  you  wind  up! 
You  're  spending  as  free  as  ever.  I  tell  you,  Ira 
Gayland,  this  has  all  got  to  end  sometime!" 

"Yes,"  the  Judge  answered  bitterly.  He  had  come 
to  be  silent  and  preoccupied  then,  except  when  he 
was  warmed  by  Annabel's  glow.  He  had  ceased  to 
have  the  smallest  missile  of  invective  to  heave  back 
at  Mrs.  Branstane.  "Yes,"  he  answered,  and  looked 
at  her  with  meaning,  "it  will  end  soon  enough." 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  187 

"Ho?     Suicide,  eh?     In  case  you  don't  win?" 

Mrs.  Branstane  saw  something  of  novelty,  of  dis- 
tinction brought  into  her  hfe.  She  caught  a  vision 
of  herself  as  a  woman  for  whom  a  man  once  had 
killed  himself.     And  she  smiled. 

So  Mrs.  Branstane's  money,  or  the  moiety  of  it 
that  she  brought  herself  to  risk  on  the  doubtful  issue 
of  the  Judge,  came,  and  "went,"  precisely  as  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  foreseen.  It  vanished  like  a  snowflake 
on  a  warm  pane.  The  worrisome  days  of  suspense 
dragged  on.  And  worse  and  worse  awry  went  the 
Judge's  affairs.  In  competition  with  the  new  insti- 
tution fired  by  the  energies  of  Walker  P.  Landis,  the 
bank  in  which  Gayland  had  lumped  most  of  his 
holdings  reached  a  crisis  in  its  business.  As  a  national 
establishment  its  stockholders  were  liberally  assessed 
for  funds  to  bolster  its  tottering  foundations;  and 
so  the  Judge's  store  of  worldly  goods  was  still  more 
seriously  depleted.  It  seemed  as  if  ill  luck  would 
never  have  done  with  him. 

That  exposed  to  Rossacre  the  very  linings  of  his  tat- 
tered pride.  At  last  the  great  gentleman  was  truly  cut 
down.  Now  might  the  tongues  wag  against  him  as 
they  had  always  itched  to  do.  Every  boarding-house 
table  in  the  city  buzzed  with  accurate  knowledge  of 
his  affairs. 

From  these  bitter  stings  the  poor  man  sought  relief 
in  grog.  Many  a  glass  of  it  he  drained  in  surcease  of 
his  sorrows.  Some  of  them  he  drained  in  company 
with  voters,  in  quest  of  the  Judgeship.  Many  things 
he  did  that  lost  him  dignity,  lost  him  friends,  lost  him 
votes.  Old  enemies  rose  again,  with  terribly  vivid 
memories.  Old  stories  of  his  origin  were  retold.  Old 
scores,  old  slights  came  back,  to  mock  him.    The  whole 


188  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

tangled  snarl  he  had  made  of  his  life  descended  upon 
him  and  wrapped  his  puzzled  and  pottering  struggles 
in  its  web. 

Yet  in  all  this  curious  arrangement  of  things  Ross- 
acre  could  see  nothing  after  all  but  Destiny  — 
Destiny  dusting  the  pathway  of  Mr.  Penning  toward 
the  Judgeship. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  takes  the  smaller  communities,  with  their  com- 
mon acquaintances  and  their  easy  personal  agree- 
ments, to  arrive  at  good  sense.  Rossacre  had 
tried  the  costly  blessings  of  our  great  universal  prim- 
ary election,  and  had  learned  a  quicker  way  to  the 
same  results  without  the  heavy  costs  of  a  double  test 
of  election  for  every  candidate.  By  common  consent 
the  district  resorted  to  the  old-time  party  convention, 
on  the  understanding  that,  the  other  formalities  hav- 
ing been  observed,  the  choice  of  the  convention  should 
pass  as  the  voice  of  the  electorate  at  the  primary. 
Hence  every  breath  in  Rossacre  waited  on  the  out- 
come of  the  Republican  convention,  only  a  few  days 
away.  The  entire  region,  as  the  great  day  approached, 
was  licked  up  to  a  tremendous  pitch  of  suspense  on 
the  point  of  what  Mr.  Penning  would  do  with  the 
Judgeship. 

Till  that  time  Penning  and  politics,  for  all  his 
previous  tenure  of  office,  had  always  combined  more 
as  oil  and  water  than  as  the  perfect  emulsion.  The 
office  had  come  more  or  less  unsought.  Still,  when  it 
was  unavoidable,  as  now.  Penning  could  render  the 
devil  his  due  and  grip  a  political  opportunity  with 
some  degree  of  mastery.  At  least  once  before  he 
had  done  it.  And  without  doubt  he  did  master  the 
excited  Republican  convention  with  the  virtuosity 
which  the  press,  when  the  pressmen  finally  under- 
stood what  he  had  done,  placed  to  his  credit. 


190  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

There  in  the  ample  Court  House  were  gathered 
the  faithful  delegates  of  Republican  creed  from  the 
entire  district.  Every  man  jack  of  them  had  adorned 
his  person  with  a  conspicuous  Penning  button  — 
thoughtfully  supplied  in  advance  by  Senator  Banks. 
Portraits  of  Penning  were  spotted  over  the  walls, 
with  festoonings  of  flags.  One  group  of  Penning 
enthusiasts,  moreover,  it  may  be  on  alcoholic  inspira- 
tion, even  struck  up  a  Penning  song,  — 

''We  want  you,  Old  Penning,  yes,  we  do!" 
Cheers  for  Penning  echoed  each  other  round  the 
building.  This  was  no  convention,  but  a  ratification 
meeting,  applauding  its  own  wisdom.  Senator  Banks, 
as  of  right,  presided,  to  finish  ofi^  with  suitable  flourish 
the  long  weeks  of  his  service  in  behalf  of  the  Republic. 
In  a  far  corner,  a  very  far  corner,  sat  the  Hon.  Ira 
Gayland,  looking  very  old  and  very  ill,  more  a  shadow 
than  a  figure  to  command  votes  and  respect. 

Penning,  in  trim  grey,  was  present,  of  course,  as 
delegate  from  the  Fourth  Ward  of  Rossacre. 

It  makes  a  brief  narrative.  No  one  expected  of 
the  convention  anything  more  than  a  perfunctory 
formality.  And  it  was  only  that.  The  balloting 
began.  Theodore  Lacy  was  granted  the  honour  of 
presenting  the  name  of  Andrew  Penning.  To  satisfy 
the  proprieties,  Malcolm  Wyeth  was  deputed  to  pre- 
sent the  name  of  Ira  Gayland,  as  a  matter  of  form, 
with  such  account  of  his  claims  to  the  office  as  his 
fancy  might  invent.  A  few  of  the  usual  nobodies 
received  complimentary  proposal  and  the  customary 
scattering  vote  —  a  vote  of  tradition,  of  testimonial, 
of  burial.  In  due  course  the  nobodies  were  voted 
down,  and  by  degrees  the  convention  edged  along 
toward  the  business  of  the  afternoon. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  191 

Still,  what  old-fashioned  political  convention,  how- 
ever firmly  made  up  might  be  its  mind,  ever  voted 
at  once  as  it  knew  it  should  vote  in  the  final  issue, 
and  so  went  about  its  business  in  a  business-like 
manner! 

Three  ballots  were  taken  on  Gayland,  each  one  of 
them  betokening  a  faUing  off  of  his  few  devoted 
followers.  Coyly  the  gathering  was  verging  toward 
the  furious  stampede,  so  soon  as  its  conscience  was 
assuaged.  Meanwhile  Penning  himself  sat  back  in 
amusement  and  kept  tab  on  the  proceedings. 

At  length  he  arose,  having  bided  his  time,  the  idol 
of  them  all.  The  whole  room  rustled  with  excite- 
ment. The  gentlemen  of  the  press  had  their  mes- 
sengers almost  toeing  the  mark  like  runners  in  a  race, 
to  be  away  with  the  great  news  of  the  nomination  at 
the  fall  of  the  president's  gavel. 

In  a  quiet  and  even  casual  manner  Penning  began 
to  speak.  He  talked  on,  and  talked  further,  until  he 
had  attention  focused  to  his  every  breath.  He 
opened  with  a  solemn  reminder  to  them  all  of  the 
importance  of  the  office  they  might  hope  to  fill. 
Gracefully,  quietly,  insensibly,  he  passed  on  to  a 
review  of  the  honoured  men  who  had  held  that  office, 
within  the  memory  of  them  all.  Last  of  those  in- 
cumbents, of  course,  was  Ira  Gayland,  upon  whose 
notable  service  he  dwelt  longest  of  all.  His  eulogy 
seemed  to  be  the  magnanimous  tribute  of  a  victor 
to  the  vanquished.  And  eagerly  they  quaffed  his 
honeyed  words.  Indeed  the  whole  gathering  — 
blacksmiths,  bartenders,  and  all  the  political  powers 
into  whose  honest  hands  the  fortunes  of  our  Re- 
public are  apt  to  be  committed  —  heard  him  through 
in  entire  appreciation  of  this  hearty  praise  for  a  beaten 


192  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

rival.  Everything  in  Gayland's  career  that  would 
make  pleasant  recollection  Penning  recalled  and  ex- 
panded. And  he  did  it  so  gracefully,  the  whole  per- 
formance was  so  full  of  a  sort  of  music,  that  no  one 
of  them  marked  how  subtly  he  was  effacing  from 
memory,  from  the  very  face  of  the  earth  itself,  all 
record  of  the  existence  of  any  such  man  as  Andrew 
Penning.  With  his  gift  for  graceful  speech  he  gave 
the  convention  to  feel  that  it  was  present  at  some 
sort  of  jubilant  anniversary  of  a  great  and  honoured 
citizen,  whose  continuance  in  the  Judgeship  was  the 
least  reward  they  could  accord  him  for  a  magnifi- 
cence of  endeavour  deserving  of  infinitely  more.  Some 
of  the  delegates  wept,  so  touched  they  were  by  this 
generosity  of  a  rival  —  a  rival  who  gradually  made  it 
appear  that  it  was  he  himself  who  was  beaten.  And 
when  they  were  all  sufTiciently  stirred  emotionally 
and  were  generally  off  their  guard,  Penning  snapped 
through  a  ballot  by  acclamation,  under  guise  of  a  mere 
vote  of  confidence.  And  so,  before  it  was  jolly  well 
aware  of  what  had  happened,  the  Republican  conven- 
tion found  itself  committed  once  again  to  the  for- 
tunes of  Ira  Gayland,  and  the  session  had  come  to  its 
logical  adjournment. 

In  a  daze  someone  seconded  Penning's  motion 
toward  that  end,  and  dreamily,  as  if  in  a  fog,  the 
delegates  voted  in  approval,  and  then  rose  and 
broke  into  bewildered  groups,  and  finally  drifted  out 
into  the  corridor,  scarcely  knowing  where  they  were 
or  what  to  do  with  the  remainder  of  a  long  afternoon. 
In  stupefaction  the  representatives  of  the  press 
glanced  at  one  another,  and  then  at  the  clock.  At 
length  they  too  passed  out,  and  sought  their  desks 
in  their  respective  offices.     There  they  long  fingered 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  193 

their  typewriters  ere  it  suddenly  occurred  to  them 
that  something  noteworthy  had  befallen. 

Then  the  words  flew,  and  in  flaming  extras  they 
shortly  let  fall  the  thunderbolt  of  their  news  upon  a 
gaping,  an  incredulous,  and  a  very  much  boomed 
circulation. 

At  the  instigation  of  the  Hon.  Andrew  Penning  the 
Republicans  of  L  —  County  had  almost  unanimously 
nominated  the  Hon.  Ira  Gayland  for  the  Judgeship. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  MONTH  later,  in  November,  Gayland  was 
duly  re-elected.  The  result  could  hardly  have 
been  otherwise.  Every  voter  of  Rossacre  and 
the  surrounding  county  owed  it  as  applause  to  the 
most  romantic  episode  in  the  history  of  the  region  to 
see  that  nothing  should  occur  to  spoil  it.  Indeed 
Gayland's  selection  at  the  polls  was,  as  at  the  con- 
vention, almost  unanimous. 

Cleverly  Penning  had  kept  them  all  in  suspense  just 
long  enough  to  forestall  the  promotion  of  any  other  rival. 

And  for  nearly  a  week  Senator  Banks  was  kept  to  his 
bed,  with  a  severe  case  of  chagrin,  disguised  as  a  cold. 

The  metropolis  itself,  for  a  day  or  two,  thrilled  at 
this  act  of  heroic  self-denial.  Penning  had  stirred  a 
latent  fibre  of  romance  in  them  all.  Not  a  voter 
among  them  all  but  wished  he  himself  were  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  a  similar  situation.  Then  the  hard 
practical  sense  which  animates  so  many  of  our  dear 
people  returned  and  began  to  laugh  at  Penning  for 
a  sentimental  ninny,  a  snivelling  fool  who  had  tossed 
away  a  whole  political  future  to  tickle  and  impress  a 
chit  of  a  girl. 

In  the  Gayland  household  this  abnegation  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Penning  was  quite  variously  viewed. 
Being  people  of  spirit,  the  Gaylands  received  Mr. 
Penning's  unsolicited  benefaction  with  sentiments  of 
indifference.  What  Miss  Annabel  herself  perhaps 
thought,    very    secretly,    of   this   remarkable   case   of 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  195 

immolation,  what  mere  man  could  hope  to  excogitate 
from  the  haughty  tossings  of  her  head  with  which 
she  greeted  any  mention  of  Mr.  Penning's  name? 
Not  but  that  mention  of  Mr.  Penning  was  the  fre- 
quent pleasure  of  Mrs.  Gayland. 

"Eh-eh,  Annabel,"  that  good  lady  once  said, 
"how  you  have  worried  your  poor  mother!  You  '11 
be  the  death  of  me,  one  of  these  days.  This  last 
folly  of  yours  is  the  worst."  Her  tears  came  freely  as 
she  mourned.  "It  has  broken  my  heart,  so  it  has. 
Didn't  I  plead  and  plead  with  you  not  to  be  so  rude 
and  harsh  to  Mr.  Penning?  But  you  would  have 
your  way.  He  would  have  been  fine  for  you  —  fine 
for  us  all.  All  the  girls  were  jealous  of  you.  Now 
how  they  will  laugh!  He  won't  come  here  any  more, 
see  if  he  does.  Just  see  what  you  've  thrown  away. 
I  heard  Mr.  Lacy  himself  say  he  might  be  President 
some  day.  Think  of  that!  It 's  shameful  of  you, 
that 's  what  it  is.  It 's  a  judgment  on  us  all,  for  our 
wickedness,  I  know  it  is." 

It  might  be  said  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Judge  Gayland  was  able  to  share  the  views  of  his 
wife,  on  this  subject  of  Mr.  Penning,  though  he  took 
pains  to  share  them  only  in  the  privacy  of  the  closet. 
For  the  rest  of  the  time  he  knew  women  well  enough 
to  have  learned  that,  to  keep  peace  with  the  wonder- 
ful creatures,  it  is  sometimes  advisable  to  avoid  cer- 
tain topics  of  conversation  that  seem  to  spread 
irritation,  for  reasons  in  the  keeping  of  God  alone. 

For  instance,  one  evening  at  the  dinner  table,  Miss 
Annabel  objected, 

"For  the  life  of  me  I  don't  see  why  everybody 
has  to  praise  Mr.  Penning  every  minute  of  the  day! 
He   did   nothing   but   what   any   self-respecting   man 


196  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

would  be  glad  to  do.  Father  was  the  very  making 
of  him.  Why  shouldn't  he  defer  to  father  1  And  not 
make  such  a  to-do  as  he  does!" 

At  that  Annabel's  father  resolved  that  the  syllables 
of  Penning's  name  should  never  more  be  trolled  in 
his  daughter's  hearing  —  and  so  straightway  impaled 
himself  upon  the  tongue  of  her  disapproval. 

On  another  evening  Annabel  scolded,  —  "Well,  I 
do  declare,  father!  Here  you  are,  safe  in  the  Judge- 
ship again,  and  you  've  never  so  much  as  thanked 
Mr.  Penning,  to  my  positive  knowledge.  I  don*t 
believe  you  've  even  spoken  to  him  on  the  street.  .  .  . 
Not,  of  course,  that  it's  anything  to  me!" 

These  things  do  cast  a  pitiless  glare  upon  the 
feminine  character. 

For  himself,  Penning  lived  on  without  seeing  any 
of  the  Gayland  connection,  save  only  Mrs.  Branstane, 
whom  he  passed  occasionally  on  the  street,  and  in 
his  habitual  abstraction  recognised  only  in  time  to 
slip  in  a  quick  nod  and  lift  of  his  hat.  The  other 
Gaylands  it  was  easy  enough  to  miss,  for  they  kept 
themselves  pretty  much  from  public  view. 

For  a  week  or  more  the  town  waited  for  the  spec- 
tacle of  Annabel  Gayland's  melting  and  becoming 
reconciliation  with  her  former  adorer;  and  when  it 
continued  to  be  withheld,  only  laughed  the  more  at 
Penning  for  his  pains. 

On  his  own  part  the  young  notable  disconcerted 
all  observers  with  his  entire  composure.  Serenely  he 
tried  with  his  toe  the  newly  formed  films  of  ice  in  the 
gutters,  went  about  his  work,  played  auction  at  the 
Club,  and  generally,  by  his  manner,  invited  aU  and 
sundry  to  visit  the  devil. 

With  that  he  began  to  excite  not  amusement  but 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  197 

wonder.  Having  created  something  a  bit  beyond  a 
welcome  sensation,  he  was  treating  them  now  to  an 
actual  mystery.  The  politictJ  wiseacres  he  baffled 
no  less  than  the  most  ingenious  gossips.  Even  the 
sensible  were  nonplussed.  To  their  immense  gratifi- 
cation, of  course.  Nothing  quite  like  it  had  ever 
occurred  there  before. 

Nothing  quite  like  it,  certainly,  had  ever  occurred 
to  Senator  Banks.  This  curious  performance,  which 
transcended  any  power  of  his  to  grasp,  he  watched 
with  the  sentiment  of  a  child  bereaved  of  an  escap- 
ing balloon.  Almost  ill  of  his  chagrin  and  of  his 
alarm  for  the  mental  stability  of  his  friend,  weary 
of  the  knowing  theorists,  and  thoroughly  exasperated 
by  Penning's  ironic  foolery  in  response  to  all  hints 
for  an  explanation,  the  Senator  even  resorted  to 
Sherry  Brookes,  whose  rascality  he  hoped  might  be 
relieved  by  some  lingering  glimmer  of  intelligence. 

And  there  resulted  one  of  those  accidents  of  the 
tongue  which  sometimes  pass  for  bursts  of  genius. 

Sherry,  in  his  pathetic  endeavour  at  the  experi- 
ment of  work,  as  a  means  of  impressing  an  unwilling 
father-in-law,  had  set  up  a  cot  in  his  newspaper 
office,  ordered  his  meals  sent  in,  and  mocked  even 
the  blandishments  of  golf.  The  Senator  found  him 
one  morning  with  his  attention  evenly  divided  be- 
tween a  cup  of  rapidly  cooling  coffee  and  an  editorial 
thunderbolt  for  his  morrow's  paper. 

"Ahem!"  the  Senator  was  obfiged  to  cough  as  he 
ventured  to  occupy  a  chair,  rather  amused  never- 
theless as  the  young  rasceJ  went  on  with  his  writ- 
ing and  let  him  wait.  It  wasn't  often  that  Sherry 
found  the  Senator  in  the  attitude  of  the  suppliant, 
and  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it. 


198  THE  END   OF  THE    FLIGHT 

"WeU?"  he  answered.  "What  is  it?"  But  when 
he  finally  looked  up  from  his  writing  he  leaped  to 
his  feet  in  feigned  surprise,  and  added,  "Why,  good 
morning,  Senator!  To  what  do  I  owe  this  honour 
of  a  visit  from  you,  sir?" 

The  Senator  stepped  quickly  to  a  chair  beside 
Sherry's  desk,  leaned  over  it,  and  whispered, 

"What's  the  matter  with  Penning?" 

"With  Penning?    Nothing  's  the  matter  with  Pen." 

"Yes,  but  what's  the  matter  with  him!" 

What  was  the  matter  with  Penning  had  given 
Sherry  himself  some  annoyance,  and  certainly  more 
thought  than  he  was  accustomed  to.  And  in  sheer 
inability  to  think  of  anything  more  intelligent  to  say, 
his  lips  almost  automatically  framed  the  shrewdest 
observation  that  had  ever  visited  them. 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  waiting  for  the  words  to  hap- 
pen, "you  really  don't  suppose  old  Pen's  going  to 
bury  himself  here  in  any  little  chore  like  the  Judge- 
ship, do  you?" 

The  Senator  shot  to  his  feet.  And  beamed.  And 
stuttered.     "Why — really,  I — " 

While  the  Senator  was  fumbling  for  speech  suited 
to  his  astonishment.  Sherry,  seeing  that  he  had  said 
something  important,  began  to  enlarge. 

"In  my  opinion,  Senator" — he  cocked  his  head 
back  judicially  —  "our  friend  Penning  has  just 
scored  one  of  the  biggest  hits  of  his  career." 

"Good  gracious!     You  mean — ?" 

"Sit  down.  Senator."  There  was  no  limit  now  to 
Sherry's  graciousness.  "That  man  Penning  knows 
his  own  business,  if  any  man  does.  God  knows  what 
he  's  really  got  his  eye  on.  I  don't.  He  takes  no  one 
into  his  confidence.     But  I  'm  satisfied  now  that  he 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  199 

doesn't  intend  to  bother  with  the  little  Judgeship. 
And"  —  Sherry  coolly  relit  a  neglected  pipe  —  "I 
think  you  '11  find  that  what  he  has  done  will  boom 
him  better  than  anything  else  he  could  have  done." 
He  watched  a  blue  cloud  issue  from  his  lips  by  way 
of  a  period. 

"But,  how—" 

"You  know  how  he's  got  the  town  guessing?  Well, 
pretty  soon  when  he  does  set  out  after  —  after  what- 
ever it  is  that  he  wants,  the  town  will  make  up  to 
him.  It  will  see  how  gently  he  has  let  it  down. 
And  — " 

"But  that  will  finish  him  for  sure!" 

"That  will  increase  everybody's  respect  for  his 
powers.  They  '11  see  — .  Don't  you  see  what  wiU 
happen?" 

Sherry  had  made  a  great  discovery  —  a  way  to 
impress  the  Senator,  by  praise  of  Penning;  and  he 
strung  it  out  to  the  utmost. 

"Everybody  will  see  that  Pen  is  a  bigger  man 
even  than  they  thought  him.  They  '11  be  prouder  of 
him  than  ever.  And  so  there  's  one  solid  backing  he 
can  count  on  for  whatever  it  is  that  he  does  want. 
You  see?" 

"My  stars!"  the  Senator  was  gasping,  like  one 
cured  by  a  miracle,  like  one  converted  from  sin.  He 
had  taken  to  pacing  the  floor  feverishly,  flapping  his 
hat  in  his  hands  behind  his  back.  "My  stars!"  he 
returned  to  Sherry's  desk.  "Young  man,  do  you 
mean  that?     Do  you  believe  it?" 

"Oh,  I've  thought  it  aU  along!" 

"See  here!"  the  Senator  made  a  promising  stab 
into  his  purse  pocket.  "Tell  you  what  I  '11  do.  I  '11 
give  you  a  hundred  dollars  if  you  '11  just  —  sort  of 


200  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

embody  that  in  a  piece  for  your  paper.  Write  it 
out  nice  and  smooth,  and  I  '11  send  you  a  cheque." 

"Oh,"  Sherry  loftily  lied  in  declining,  "it's  written 
already,  for  nothing.  I  'm  not  to  be  bought,  you 
know.     But  there's  something — " 

"Yes,  I  know!"    the  Senator  anticipated. 

" — else  you  can  let  me  do  for  you." 

The  Senator  was  fooled  by  the  clever  phrasing,  but 
still  suspicious.     "What's  that?"    he  said. 

"Let  me  marry  your  daughter,"  said  Sherry. 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  Senator. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  new  proprietor  and  editor  of  The  Globe 
newspaper,  whatever  the  fortunes  of  his  effort 
to  provide  Senator  Banks  with  a  son-in-law, 
fared  better  with  his  other  act  of  charity.  Precisely 
as  the  Senator  wished,  his  piece  for  the  paper  was 
duly  composed,  duly  published,  and  fell  with  the 
desired  effect. 

As  by  lightning  flash  the  mystery  of  Penning  was 
cleared.  Dutifully  the  town  accepted  Sherry's  read- 
ing. A  bold,  astute  design  was  conceded  to  lurk 
behind  the  surface  ninnyism  of  Penning.  Precisely 
as  Sherry  foresaw,  they  all  conceived  a  new  respect 
for  the  silent,  inscrutable  fellow.  Instantly  he  was 
of  the  stuff  that  Governors  are  fashioned  from.  There 
was  no  knowing  on  what  exalted  station  he  had 
fixed  his  eye. 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  advise  you  now.  Penning," 
Senator  Banks  said,  in  touching  humility,  in  beam- 
ing pride,  on  his  prompt  visit  to  the  young  lawyer's 
office.  "I  'm  just  going  to  stand  by  and  watch  you 
pass  on.     You  're  too  much  for  me." 

Others  ventured  now  to  halt  Penning  on  the  street 
and  offer  their  congratulations  to  the  man  who  had 
been  made  plain  to  them. 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  among  those  whose  felicitations 
had  been  released  and  put  in  order. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Penning!"  she  said,  as  she  caught  him 
one  morning  awaiting  a  car  on  a  corner,  shaking  his 


202  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

hand,  to  his  perplexity.  "I  just  want  to  tell  how 
grand  I  think  you  've  been.  Yes,  just  —  well  — 
grand!  That  was  a  noble  act  you  did.  It 's  a  shame 
no  one  of  the  Gaylands  has  had  the  grace  to  thank 
you  for  it.  But  /  say  it  was  grand,  that 's  what  it 
was." 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  stepped  closer,  and  spoke 
with  the  smile  of  one  conscious  of  being  at  home  with 
the  intricate  machinery  of  human  motive.  "And 
you  didn't  fool  me,  either  —  oh,  no!  /  saw  all  along 
what  made  you  do  it.  And  it  was  grand,  that 's  what 
it  was.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  that  few  men  I  know 
would  have  done  it." 

She  drew  back,  and  waited  for  submerged  and  timid 
worth  to  come  forth  and  bask  in  the  warmth  of 
appreciation. 

"Oh!  Really!  Thank  you  so  much,  ma'am!" 
Penning  stuttered,  taken  off  his  guard  by  the  effusion 
and  rather  amused  by  the  patronage.  "It's  awfully 
good  of  you!"  And,  with  his  car  bowling  along,  and 
with  nothing  else  handy  on  his  tongue  to  say,  he 
boarded  the  car,  with  a  lift  of  his  hat. 

"Well!"  Mrs.  Branstane  blazed,  as  she  watched 
the  spectacle  of  his  leaving.  After  such  hearty  en- 
couragement she  felt  entitled  to  a  half  hour's  ex- 
change of  confidences.  "I  declare!  The  airs  that 
man  gives  himself!"  She  tossed  her  head  and  curled 
her  lips. 

Then  Mrs.  Branstane  herself  bustled  along,  with 
heated  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ONE  morning,  toward  the  close  of  that  Novem- 
ber, Senator  Banks  had  a  lingering  glance  into 
his  bath-room  mirror,  at  the  face  which  he 
had  just  finished  shaving,  and  wondered  whether  it 
was  advancing  age  that  accounted  for  his  gathering 
feeling  of  powerlessness.  It  was  the  morning  when  he 
had  decided  that  Sylvia  and  her  mother  were  not,  and 
Sylvia's  mother  had  decided  that  they  were,  to  journey 
with  Sheridan  Brookes  to  see  Harvard's  annual  game 
with  Yale  at  football  —  this  year  at  Cambridge. 

However,  when  the  Senator  came  to  see  the  trio 
off  at  the  train,  and  really  faced  the  issue,  his  objec- 
tions were,  to  his  infinite  disgust,  by  no  means  so 
violent  as  he  had  planned  and  wished  them  to  be. 
After  all,  the  journey  was  not  necessarily  in  violation 
of  his  iron  edict  that  Sherry  was  not  to  be  with 
Sylvia  except  in  a  crowd.  And  the  Senator,  in  the 
end,  was  not  merely  relieved,  he  was  amused,  by 
the  reflection  that  Sylvia,  being  ushered  out  into  the 
great  crowd,  was  in  the  way  of  discovering  for  herself 
that  there  were  other  young  men  in  the  world  besides 
Sherry  Brookes.  Above  all  the  Senator  was  not  averse 
to  having  Sherry  thus  pay  the  bills  for  his  own  down- 
fall. And  so,  on  that  November  morn,  they  set  off  for 
Cambridge,  and  the  Senator  repaired  to  his  office,  on 
one  of  his  own  street-cars,  highly  pleased  with  having 
so  neatly  finished  off  the  pestilential  Sherry. 

But  on  the  evening  of  that  same  day  another  of 


204  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

the  Senator's  street-cars  bore  Mrs.  Branstane  destined 
for  a  village  three  or  four  miles  outside  of  Rossacre. 
In  the  darkness  at  the  end  of  the  line  an  automobile 
lay  in  waiting.  Seated  at  the  wheel  was  a  figure  so 
heavily  muffled  and  disguised  that  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  instantly  assured  of  its  identity. 

Without  waste  of  a  word  of  greeting  she  quickly 
opened  the  door  and  slipped  into  the  seat  beside  the 
wheel.  Even  as  she  latched  the  door  the  clutch  was 
thrown  and  the  car  itself  started  away  as  if  its 
movements  too  were  incidents  in  a  preconceived  plan. 
The  road  itself  seemed  to  have  been  smoothly  frozen 
aforethought. 

Later  still,  by  an  hour  and  a  half,  in  an  upper 
room  in  a  comfortable  little  inn  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  village,  along  the  road  which  the  more  adventur- 
ous Rossacre  motorists  were  accustomed  to  follow 
on  their  infrequent  essays  toward  Philadelphia,  Mr. 
Landis,  divested  of  his  furry  habilaments,  was  reach- 
ing across  a  table  littered  with  empty  dishes. 

"Damned  good  stuff,  I  will  say!"  he  was  laughing. 
"Pity  you  didn't  pinch  a  second  bottle  from  the  old 
guy.  He  knows  a  good  thing  when  he  sees  it  —  if  he 
sees  it  before  I  do!  What's  the  name  of  it.!^"  He 
examined  the  label  before  pouring  another  glass  for 
himself. 

Having  drained  the  glass  he  tilted  the  bottle  again, 
and  even  drew  from  his  pocket  a  pencil  and  memo- 
randum, and  methodically  jotted  down  the  brand  of 
the  port. 

"Good  enough  to  pass  out  to  anybody.  I've  got 
to  remember  it,"  he  said.  And  as  Mrs.  Branstane 
hungrily  watched  him  he  drained  the  last  drop  of  the 
tawny  fluid. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  205 

"Well!"  he  said  on,  smacking  his  lips  and  reflec- 
tively choosing  a  cigar  from  a  leather  case.  "Now 
to  business.  With  the  little  pup  Brookes  out  of  the 
way,  shall  I  do  it.^  It's  just  what  we  've  been  waiting 
for.  Eh?"  Blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  across  the 
table,  he  leaned  after  it,  coming  to  rest  with  his 
elbows  on  the  cloth.  "Not  but  what  I'd  do  it, 
Brookes  or  no  Brookes.     He  can't  scare  me." 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  leaning  backward,  it  seemed  a 
little  wearily,  against  the  high  backed,  green  stained 
settle  on  her  own  side  of  the  alcove.  She  even  looked 
away  as  she  answered,  "I  've  already  told  you  what 
I'd  do!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Landis  said,  his  lips  curling  about 
his  cigar  and  over  the  remark  he  was  on  the  point 
of  making.  "You  say  that  because  you're  peeved 
at  the  Bankses  for  not  inviting  you  to  their  spread. 
The  way  you  bragged!  And  you  count  on  your 
uncle  Dudley  to  pull  off  a  little  revenge  for  you.  Isn't 
that  it?" 

Mrs.  Branstane's  lip,  at  that  point,  curled,  for  any 
reply. 

"Oh,  come  now,  sweetey!  You  really  mean  it? 
Shall  I  do  it?" 

"Do  I  ever  say  anything  I  don't  mean?"  Mrs. 
Branstane  evaded,  blushing  nevertheless  at  having 
been  read  so  accurately. 

Landis  removed  his  cigar  in  order  to  smile  in  real 
earnest,  in  real  pride.  "By  heavens,  little  girl!"  he 
chuckled.  "Don't  believe  you  ever  do!  By  ginger, 
you  've  got  the  nerve,  that  's  what  you  have!  Just 
wait  till  I  can  shake  the  little  old  hen  at  home.  If 
you  and  I  don't  make  things  hum,  then  I  'm  all 
foozled!     But   say,   now" — his   eyes   fell   again  into 


206  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

their  shrewd  glance  of  measurement,  of  calculation  — 
"you  really  think  I  can  get  away  with  it,  do  you? 
It  '11  make  an  awful  stew,  remember.  Even  without 
Brookes  to  help  it  along." 

"For  a  day  or  two,  maybe."  Mrs.  Branstane 
twisted  a  ring  on  her  finger,  somewhat  impatiently. 

"Well  —  do  you  really  think  Sherry  will  have  the 
nerve  to  print  a  story  in  his  paper,  the  way  he  says? 
Or  was  he  just  bluffing?  —  He  can't  bluff  me,  by 
heck.     I  '11  do  it  just  because  of  that  puppy." 

"Oh,  let  him  print." 

"Print  and  be  blowed,  eh?" 

"My  dear  Walker!"  Mrs.  Branstane  studied  him 
for  a  moment  in  amusement.  "Won't  you  have  the 
money?"    she  finished  quietly. 

Walker  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  and  re- 
garded her  with  beaming  admiration.  "Ain't  it  the 
only  thing  in  the  world!"  he  philosophised,  bathing 
in  this  fount  of  perfect  sympathy.  And  expanded, 
as  one  will  when  he  is  sure  of  appreciation.  And 
even  repeated  the  remark.  While  the  amusement 
deepened  on  Mrs.  Branstane's  face  —  rather  hand- 
some then,  with  the  handsomeness  that  just  such 
men  may  admire  at  just  such  times  in  just  such 
places. 

"You'd  really  take  the  shot,  then,  eh?" 

Long  ago  Landis  had  determined  to  "take  the 
shot,"  but  he  wanted  to  prolong  the  suspense,  and 
emphasise  the  risk  he  was  taking,  and  be  admired 
for  his  bravado.     "You'd  really  take  the  shot?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  man!" 

"Well,  then!"  Landis  drained  the  last  swallow 
in  his  glass,  unaware  that  Mrs.  Branstane  was  already 
reaching    for    her    gloves.      "Here    goes,    then!      I'm 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  207 

doing  it  for  you,"  he  chuckled,  looking  up  at  the 
ceiling,  rather  fascinated  by  the  spectacle  of  himself 
as  a  man  of  nerve  and  decision.  "But  I  give  you  my 
word,  little  girl,  there  '11  be  one  awful  stew,  remem- 
ber that!  You  know" — he  returned  to  earth  again 
—  "I  kind  of  like  that  fellow  Sherry?  Wish  I  had 
him  for  my  secretary,  instead  of  that  snivelling  dea- 
con, Crist.  Sherry  and  I  'd  get  on.  That  fellow  's 
got  the  nerve,  I  tell  you.  What  you  doing?"  he 
suddenly  observed  of  Mrs.  Branstane's  now  obvious 
preparations  for  leaving.  She  was  smoothing  out  the 
sleeves  of  her  heavy  velvet  coat.  "Quit  that,  now!" 
he  admonished.     "It's  early  to  be  going  home!" 

"Time  to  be  getting  back.  Walker." 

"Oh,  tut,  tut!  Come  on.  Stick  around  a  little. 
Hang  it,  you  and  I  don't  get  together  more  than 
twice  a  month  these  times.  What 's  the  matter? 
Going  to  prayer-meeting  at  this  hour  of  the  night?" 
he  tried  a  clumsy  pleasantry. 

"Time  to  be  going.   Walker." 

"Aw,  just  an  hour  more.     Come  on." 

"If  I'm  not  back  by  ten  o'clock  they'll  wonder 
where  I  've  been.  .  .  .  They  may  ask.'' 

"  It 's  none  of  their  damned  business.  Tell  'em 
so!" 

"My  dear  Walker!"  Without  his  assistance  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  wriggled  into  her  coat,  and  now  was 
buttoning  it  under  her  tilted  and  rather  pretty 
rounded  chin.  "That's  where  you  fall  down,  if 
you  '11  let  me  say  so.  One  must  be  regular.  It  pays. 
A  man  who  wants  to  be  another  Bockefeller  ought 
to  join  the  church.  It  's  good  business."  She  was 
on  the  point  of  adding  something  to  her  homily,  but 
thought  better   of  it,   and   said  instead,    "Come   on, 


208  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

now.  Get  into  your  coat.  Everybody  knows  every- 
body else  in  this  hole,  and  there  's  no  knowing  when 
somebody  may  butt  in  here  and  see  us.  You  ought 
to  know  that." 

"By  George,  Nellie!"  Landis  was  unable  to  restrain 
his  admiration.  Even  while  he  writhed  into  his  heavy 
fur  coat  he  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon  her.  "You're 
some  slick  article  and  no  mistake  about  that!" 

She  was  leading  the  way  now,  and  he  was  hurriedly 
following  her  out  of  their  alcove,  and  down  the  stairs, 
both  of  them  heavily  muffled,  on  their  way  to  his 
motor  in  the  yard  behind  the  inn.  There  in  the 
streaked  rays  from  his  own  and  the  lamps  of  half  a 
dozen  other  cars,  he  tucked  her  in  and  pinched  her 
knee  as  he  tucked  a  robe  across  it.  And  in  a  moment 
Landis  had  turned  the  wheel  in  the  direction  of 
Rossacre. 

For  a  space  they  rode  in  silence  behind  the  wedge 
of  light  from  their  lamps  that  split  the  cool  darkness. 
At  least  Mrs.  Branstane  observed  a  decent  respect 
for  the  grandeur  of  the  starry  gloom. 

Mr.  Landis  rather  observed  a  decent  respect  for 
the  grandeur  that  was  Landis.  "But  say!"  he 
chuckled,  still  full  of  the  great  subject  of  himself. 
"Won't  there  be  a  stew,  though,  when  I  spring  that 
trap!" 

"Stew!"  Mrs.  Branstane  sniffed.  "What  language 
you  do  use!" 

"Gee,  but  you're  fussy!  What's  the  matter  to- 
night?" He  glanced  at  her  indulgently.  "Well, 
anyway,  you  know  what  I  mean." 

As  they  approached  the  edge  of  town  he  throttled 
down  and  came  to  a  halt  under  the  slightly  deepened 
shadow  of  a  clump  of  leafless  trees. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  209 

"What's  the  matter?  Forgot  something?"  Mrs, 
Branstane  queried. 

"Yes.     A  kiss." 

She  drew  away. 

"Just  one,"  he  pleaded.  "Last  one  for  a  week, 
little  girl!  Come  on!"  And  when  Mrs.  Branstane 
yielded,  slowly,  he  started  on  again.  "That's  some- 
thing like!"    he  said. 

Safely  home,  Mrs.  Branstane  observed  to  her 
mirror,  later  that  night,  what  she  had  prudently 
withheld  from  Landis.  "Such  nails!"  she  said.  And 
laughed.  "And  why  doesn't  he  have  his  hair  cut 
once  in  a  while!"     And  then  she  crept  into  bed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AGAINST  these  flowers  of  speech  Sherry  Brookes 
was  matching  a  few  of  his  own  that  same 
night,  though  some  distance  away. 

They  were  at  dinner  in  Boston  at  the  Copley-Plaza, 
where  Sherry  had  firmly  established  Mrs.  Banks  and 
Sylvia  in  a  pretty  suite;  and  it  would  make  a  nice 
psychological  calculation  which  of  the  three  was 
deriving  the  supreme  of  satisfaction  from  this  adven- 
ture. To  Sylvia  it  was  a  venture  into  wonderland. 
Not  but  that  she  had  travelled  too,  with  her  parents. 
Only  that  the  Senator's  reputation  had  not,  in  point 
of  truth,  permeated  the  country  to  any  extent,  out- 
side his  native  State,  and  though  his  means  were 
ample,  they  had  never  got  more  than  they  paid  for. 
This  was  something  different. 

The  Senator  had  counted  upon  Sylvia's  discovery 
that  there  were  other  bright  young  men  in  the  wide 
world  than  Sherry  Brookes,  and  this  discovery 
Sylvia  dutifully  made.  The  grand  occasion  of  the 
Yale  game  had  gathered,  as  it  always  does,  a  glitter- 
ing collection  of  notables  of  every  possible  variety, 
and  Sylvia  could  never  have  answered  the  query 
whether  she  was  the  more  amazed  or  the  more  de- 
lighted with  the  number  that  Sherry  knew,  and 
proudly  presented  to  her  mother  and  herself.  Their 
dinner  was  lengthened  to  twice  its  normal  period  by 
Sherry's  constant  visits  to  other  tables,  to  bring  back 
ex-football     captains,    or     members    of    Wall     Street 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  211 

banking  firms,  or  somebody  who  had  been  abroad 
doing  something  of  ponderous  importance  in  the 
diplomatic  service.  Or  they  first  saw  Sherry  for  them- 
selves, and  rushed  to  his  table.  There  seemed  to  be 
no  end  to  his  brilliant  acquaintance.  And  no  end  to 
their  noisy  delight  at  seeing  him  again.     It  was  — 

"Hello,  you  little  old  thing!  It  wets  my  eyes  to 
see  you  again!"  from  some  young  devil  as  handsome 
as  Sherry.     Or  — 

"Sherry,  this  is  luck!  You're  just  the  man  we 
need.  You  've  got  to  drop  everything  and  come  and 
fly  with  us.  We  're  dippy  on  aviation.  Come  on, 
now.  I  '11  see  you  about  it  after  the  game.  Got  a 
machine  for  you  all  ready." 

Even  dashing  and  imposing  grey-haired  old  grads 
knew  Sherry,  gentlemen  of  the  very  highest  impor- 
tance. One  of  them  completely  captivated  Mrs. 
Banks,  bringing  them  united  attention  with  his  rush 
from  a  far  corner,  waving  his  napkin. 

"Sherry!"  He  grasped  both  of  Sherry's  hands. 
"Tickled  to  death  to  see  you!  Now  mind,  you're 
coming  back  home  with  me.  Haven't  had  a  good 
roar  since  you  left  us  last  time.  And  Ethel  losing 
flesh  all  the  time!  Now  mind.  How  are  you  betting 
on  the  score  .^"  .  .  . 

The  dinner  had  not  proceeded  beyond  the  fish,  in 
fact,  before  Sylvia,  and  her  mother,  too,  had  truly 
made  a  discovery. 

The  discovery  of  John  Sheridan  Brookes. 

And  other  discoveries  still.  Half  of  the  hubbub 
about  their  table  was  occasioned  more  by  Sylvia  than 
by  Sherry.  Arrayed  in  one  of  the  confections  pur- 
posely ordered  in  New  York  against  this  event, 
Sylvia    was    radiantly  —  no,    appallingly  —  beautiful. 


212  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

The  giddy  and  vociferous  good  cheer  about  her,  the 
bursts  of  Yale  and  Harvard  cheering,  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  just  place  among  the  handsome  and 
gorgeously  gowned  women  there,  had  painted  an  extra 
tint  on  Sylvia's  cheek,  lit  a  new  sparkle  in  her  eye, 
and  constantly  parted  her  lips  in  a  smile  of  the 
gayest  and  frankest  delight.  Occasionally  the  smile 
was  paid  to  Sherry,  in  coin  of  appreciation.  Other 
women  forgot  to  be  jealous,  she  was  so  candidly, 
winningly  delighted.  Men  stared  at  her  openly, 
gazed  at  her  furtively,  and  forgot  to  cheer  as  they 
looked. 

As  for  Sherry,  his  pride  would  have  made  the  pea- 
cock hang  his  head. 

More  excitement  later  at  the  theatre,  where  a 
music-comedy  made  what  show  it  might  against 
unoccasioned,  irrepressible  bursts  of  applause  and 
cheering. 

Then  the  game  next  day,  when  they  rattled  out  to 
Soldiers  Field  in  a  taxi  stuffed  with  crimson  chry- 
santhemums, and  furs,  and  rugs,  and  Mrs.  Banks,  and 
Sylvia  and  Sherry. 

Thanks  to  his  past  performances  on  the  football 
field.  Sherry  had  been  blessed  by  the  miracle  of  three 
best  seats  in  the  Stadium,  down  among  other  famous 
players  of  yore,  everywhere  greeted  by  them  with 
vehement  enthusiasm.  And  there  was  more  staring  — 
at  Sherry  first.  Then,  chiefly,  the  stares  rested  with 
Sylvia.  Men  about  them  wondered  to  themselves 
who  could  be  that  lucky  dog  ^ith  the  popularity  and 
the  devilish  pretty  girl.  And  after  the  game  Sherry 
laid  it  on  even  thicker,  and  took  them  to  the  Lam- 
poon building,  and,  as  a  former  member  of  the  staff, 
showed  them  about  it,   in  company  with  the  wives 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  213 

and  daughters  of  Governors  and  United  States  Sena- 
tors and  Ambassadors,  and  treated  them  to  tea,  and 
let  Mrs.  Banks  receive  what  impressions  she  pleased. 

Which  she  most  emphatically  did.  Sherry  had 
scored  with  Mrs.  Banks  unmistakably  enough. 

Certainly  he  scored  more  than  either  team  on  the 
field,  and  yet  the  remarkable  fact  has  to  be  recorded 
that  he  saw  scarcely  a  dozen  plays  in  the  game. 
They  served  only  the  shrewd  end  he  had  in  view, 
and  it  was  fuUy  an  hour  after  they  had  left  the 
Stadium  before  he  knew  the  score  with  exactitude. 

Shrewdly  he  had  seated  himself  between  Mrs. 
Banks  and  Sylvia,  in  order  the  more  impartially  to 
dispense  his  explanations,  and  with  the  first  roar  that 
broke  from  the  Yale  side,  as  the  Yale  team  pranced 
into  the  great  loop,  he  said  in  Sylvia's  ear, 

"Guess  this  is  crowd  enough  to  suit  your  father, 
what?  He  wants  us  to  be  chaperoned  by  all  creation. 
This  is  as  near  as  I  can  come  to  it.  But  look  at  that 
team,  will  you!"  The  Yale  men  were  rehearsing  their 
plays,  and  Sherry's  mind  had  slipped  for  a  moment, 
by  habit,  into  football.  "They're  beaten  already, 
before  the  whistle  blows;  They  know  it.  They  '11 
fumble  from  nervousness,  and  lose  a  touch-down  in 
the  first  five  minutes.  You  watch  and  see.  While," 
he  added,  "I  watch  you!" 

"Hush,  Sherry!  For  heaven's  sake!"  Sylvia 
cautioned,  for  the  cheering  had  suddenly  died  and 
left  Sherry's  final  words  to  be  overheard  by  those 
about  them.  A  few  women  on  the  tier  below  turned 
round  to  see  who  it  was  had  spoken,  and  Sherry  was 
driven  back  to  football. 

"The  wind,  you  see,  is  from  the  open  end  of  the 
Stadium.      Now,    if    Harvard    wins    the    toss,    watch 


214  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

Mahan  pick  the  windward  half,  and  kick  on  the  first 
snap  of  the  ball.  He  knows  he  's  better  than  Guern- 
sey—  and  isn't  scared,  to  boot.  And — "  for  now 
Yale  let  go  another  cheer  —  "and  I  love  you,  Sylvia, 
and  you  've  got  to  take  me.  I  brought  you  all  the 
way  up  here  where  there  's  the  only  chance  I  've  got 
to  tell  you." 

The  cheer  subsided,  and  he  continued  soberly, 

"Harvard  will  box  Guernsey — " 

"Do  they  have  boxing  in  football.^^"  Mrs.  Banks's 
inquiry  drew  a  general  laugh. 

"I  mean,  they'll  surround  him  at  every  chance." 
Sherry  was  imperturbably  patient.  "He's  Yale's 
best  punter.  They  won't  give  him  a  chance  to  play 
his  game.  Hello,  Buck!"  he  broke  off,  chiefly  for 
Mrs.  Banks's  benefit,  to  shout  to  a  coach  parading 
along  the  side  lines.  "And  if  Guernsey  should  — 
accidentally,  you  know  —  get  crippled,  it 's  Good- 
bye, Yale!"  he  ended  in  Sylvia's  direction,  while 
neighbouring  spectators  cocked  their  ears  to  catch  more 
of  this  clearly  expert  discourse.  "They  know  they  're 
licked,"  he  laid  it  on  for  his  auditors'  behoof.  "But 
I  admire  the  devils.  They  die  hard.  Yes,"  —  as  a 
song  broke  out  —  "that's  the  'Undertaker'  thing. 
How  did  it  originate?  Oh,  I  must  tell  you."  And  he 
did. 

But  already  Sherry  had  said  enough,  by  word  and 
manner,  to  let  half  a  hundred  people  about  him  in  on 
his  secret.  Every  minute  or  two  they  stole  sly 
glances  at  the  blushing  Sylvia,  or  craned  their  necks 
to  see  how  he  was  progressing,  and  in  their  hearts 
wished  him  luck. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  rent  by  a  thunderous  roar. 
The    Harvard    team    had    appeared.      After    a    brief 


\      THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  215 

contribution  to  it,  Sherry  as  suddenly  resumed  his 
own  efforts  toward  a  goal. 

"Sylvia,"  he  leaned  toward  her  to  say  in  her  ear, 
"I  had  to  bring  you  nearly  a  thousand  miles  to  the 
one  place  where  I  can  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you. 
Now,  by  heavens,  while  the  cheering  lasts,  I  'm  going 
to  tell  you!" 

Hence  it  was  that  the  most  utterly  crimson  thing 
among  all  the  Harvard  emblems  that  day  was  the 
loveliness  that  was  Sylvia  Banks. 

Presently  Yale  flowered  forth  into  another  song, 
but  the  volume  of  sound  was  not  perfectly  adapted 
to  Sherry's  uses,  and  he  was  obliged  to  wait  for  a 
lyrical  outburst  from  the  whole  Harvard  stand. 
Then  Sherry  said, 

"There  are  forty-two  thousand  people  in  this 
bunch,  Sylvia.  Come  from  all  parts  of  the  United 
States.  And  you  're  the  sweetest  thing  of  them  all. 
You  'd  be  that  if  I  took  you  where  there  were  forty- 
two  million!  And  I  'm  the  proudest  man  in  forty- 
two  million!  See  how  they  turn  to  stare  at  you. 
Think  I  'd  swap  places  to-day  with  the  Harvard 
captain.^  I  rather  think  not!  And  this  is  the  way 
it 's  going  to  be  as  long  as  you  live  —  you  and  I  live. 
Take  me  or  not,  I  'm  always  going  to  be  deathly 
anxious  to  be  in  your  company  —  just  all  the  ever- 
lasting time.  But  take  me.  It  'U  save  you  so  much 
bother!     And  save  me  —  " 

The  song  had  ceased.  A  hush  fell  over  the  whole 
Rossacre  of  people  there  assembled,  as  the  two  cap- 
tains and  the  proper  official  strode  to  the  middle  of 
the  field  and  flipped  a  coin  for  the  choice  of  goals. 
And  a  deafening  roar  arose  as  Mahan  indicated  by 
a  sweep  of  his  arm  his  winning  of  the  toss  and  his 


216  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

geographical  preference.  The  Yale  frogs  promptly 
fell  into  their  Aristophanesian  croaking,  Harvard  into 
its  "'Rahs,"  and  Sherry  observed,  into  a  pretty  ear: 

"Funny,  isn't  it!  Harvard  doesn't  know  it,  but 
it's  cheering  expressly  for  me!" 

Barely  had  he  got  it  said,  and  Sylvia  her  "Hush, 
Sherry!  Somebody  will  hear  you!"  when  another 
hush  intruded  as  the  ball  was  tee'd  in  mid-field,  the 
whistle  blew,  and  the  game  was  on. 

Sherry's  game  was  on. 

As  he  had  predicted,  Harvard  kicked  at  once,  but 
Yale,  making  a  fair  catch,  started  a  series  of  rushes 
that  carried  the  ball  breathlessly  close  to  the  Harvard 
goal  line.  In  the  records  of  the  game  it  stands  as 
one  of  the  few  Yale  spurts  of  that  particular  meet- 
ing, but  it  kept  the  Harvard  stand  breathless  and 
silent,  and  the  only  vocal  outcry  came  from  the  Yale 
side  —  and  from  there  came  faintly,  in  sheer  surprise. 

"Oh,  the  boobs!  Oh,  the  beggars!  Watch  for  a 
fumble!"  Sherry  was  shouting,  to  the  Harvard  team 
if  to  anyone  in  particular. 

It  happened,  however,  that  though  Guernsey  of 
Yale  caught  the  ball,  two  Harvard  men  caught 
Guernsey.  Weary  from  heroic  endeavours  that  won 
from  Princeton  the  Saturday  before,  he  was  unequal 
to  the  stiff  tackles,  and  lay  on  the  ground  while 
mothers  groaned.  The  ball,  meanwhile,  was  be- 
ing flattened  under  the  weight  of  a  Harvard  man. 
Sherry's  prediction  of  a  fumble  had  come  true.  And 
in  a  minute  more  the  formidable  Guernsey  was  limp- 
ing from  the  field,  Mahan  had  kicked  marvellously 
far  and  out  of  danger,  and  the  Harvard  side  burst 
into  a  convenient  roar. 

Immediately   Sherry   was  exulting  in   Sylvia's  ear, 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  217 

"  0-oh,  thank  God  for  Guernsey !  He 's  an  awful 
nice  fellow.  I  know  him.  But  he  's  never  been  a 
better  fellow  than  now.  He  's  given  me  a  cheer.  I 
can  talk  to  you  at  last.  Every  one  of  the  thousand 
miles  between  this  and  Rossacre  is  worth  waiting  a 
thousand  years  for  just  this.  And  I  'm  lucky  to  have 
it  now.  I  'd  travel  a  million  miles  to  have  this 
chance.  You  dear!  There  isn't  a  girl  here  —  or  in 
the  world  —  as  lovely  and  sweet  as  you.  I  'd  back 
you  against  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  Oh,  Lord,  there  's 
the  cheer  dying  out,  just  when  I  've  got  so  much  to 
say!  Go  it,  Harvard!"  he  finished,  as  a  blind  to  Mrs. 
Banks,  while  dozens  round  about  turned  to  admire 
this  stalwart  lung  enlisted  for  Harvard. 

Thence  on,  however,  better  fortune  fell  to  Sherry. 
The  early  rushes  were  seen  to  be  Yale's  only  serious 
assault  upon  the  game  that  year.  After  that  the 
noise  came  chiefly  from  the  nearby  Harvard  cheering 
section,  and  Sherry's  asides  to  Sylvia  were  corre- 
spondingly multiplied. 

"Think  of  it,  Sylvia!"  he  said  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, "the  pick  of  the  country  fights  to  get  in  here. 
And  you  're  the  pick  of  the  pick.  There  isn't  a  woman 
here  who  wouldn't  be  jealous  if  she  saw  you.  There 
isn't  a  man  here  who  wouldn't  swap  what  he  's  got 
for  you.  I  know  that 's  pretty  coarse  love  talk. 
The  sweet  sonnets  don't  come  in  my  line.  All  the 
same,  the  best  word-slinger  in  all  this  crowd,  or  in 
£dl  the  world,  couldn't  love  you  more  than  I  do." 

There,  while  she  murmured  confused  protests,  and 
even  sought  to  seal  his  lips  with  her  hand,  he  tried 
to  renew  the  cheer  with  his  incantation  of  "Hawvud!" 

Soon  again  Mahan  fetched  another  phenomenally 
long  kick,  and  again  the  obedient  cheer  arose. 


218  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

"I  know,  Sylvia,"  the  waiting  Sherry  promptly 
made  use  of  it,  "your  ideal  of  a  lover  is  a  happy 
combination  of  Shakespeare,  Napoleon  and  John  D. 
Rockefeller.  That 's  every  girl's  ideal  in  these  days. 
I  don't  blame  'em.  But  really,  you  '11  find  me  a 
pretty  fair  substitute.  I  'm  every  one  of  those  fel- 
lows by  intention,  at  least.  And  in  a  way  I  'm  a  lot 
better.  Fellows  like  that  are  absorbed  in  themselves. 
/  'm  absorbed  in  you.  And  always  will  be.  Oh, 
you  can't  possibly  turn  me  down  now,  Sylvia.  Look 
how  sober  I  am.  And  a  worship  like  mine  doesn't 
grow  on  every  bush.  Every  rose-bush,  I  mean. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  Damn,  I  wish  sometimes  I 
were  a  poet.  I  never  knew  poetry  could  be  so  con- 
venient. Really  useful.  But  if  I  were  the  greatest 
poet  that  ever  lived,  I  couldn't  tell  you  all  that  I  've 
got  in  me  to  say.  There,  how  was  that!  Oh,  damn!" 
he  complained  suddenly,  as  the  cheer  died  down. 
"Just  when  I  was  really  getting  started!" 

Between  the  halves  he  ushered  Sylvia  like  a  prin- 
cess to  the  coffee  stands  under  the  arched  entrances. 
There,  for  one  thing,  she  heard  enough  of  complaint 
from  the  holders  of  other  seats  to  understand  by  what 
grace  of  importance  she  was  sitting  in  the  best. 
Another  token  of  Sherry's  unsuspected  powers. 

Meanwhile  Sherry  himself  talked  on.  "Sylvia," 
he  exulted,  "you've  got  to  admit  that  this  is  all 
regular.  I  'm  taking  no  advantage  of  your  Dad. 
He  wants  us  to  be  always  in  a  crowd.  Well,  here's 
crowd  enough,  even  for  him.  And  it  can't  prevent 
me  —  nothing  can  prevent  me  —  from  telling  you 
that  I  love  you.  I  'd  invent  some  way  of  telling  you, 
if  I  died  for  it.  The  only  thing  that  stops  me  is  my 
stupid  tongue.     I  know  now  why  knights  of  old  used 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  219 

to  like  to  die  for  their  ladies.  The  poet  has  got 
some  means  of  relief.  He  can  spout.  The  rest  of  us 
can  only  die!" 

They  were  away  behind  one  of  the  great  outer 
columns,  and  Sherry  was  speaking  like  a  rapid-fire 
gun,  to  make  the  most  of  this  extra  opportunity. 
The  time  was  short,  the  circumstance  fleeting. 

Modestly,  but  vainly,  Sylvia  sought  to  protest,  to 
stay  him.  Yet  it  was  only  a  faithful  and  formal 
observation  of  a  canon  of  her  sex  —  to  flee,  or  make 
pretense  of  flight,  for  at  least  a  moment,  before  the 
pursuing  male.  For  all  this  flattery,  the  subtle  and 
the  spoken,  was  overwhelming  and  resistless. 

Certainly  Mrs.  Banks  had  so  decided.  Back  in 
her  seat  Mrs.  Banks  had  swelled  with  pride  of  her 
daughter  till,  if  she  could  have  expressed  it  physi- 
cally, she  would  have  filled  the  dimensions  of  the 
Stadium.  Neither  had  she  forgot  Sherry's  part  in 
providing  her  with  so  many  agreeable  sensations.  In 
Rossacre  Sherry  had  appeared  to  her  "wild."  Here, 
in  the  great  world,  wildness,  Mrs.  Banks  could  see, 
being  no  fool  herself,  was  not  a  stigma  but  something 
of  a  distinction.  Here  people  openly  admired  the  spirit 
of  such  a  feUow.  AU  he  needed  was  a  touch  of  femi- 
nine restraint.  And  Mrs.  Banks  had  privately  found, 
not  far  from  her  own  soul,  just  the  precise  fount  of 
that  needed  commodity.  Far  from  resisting  him 
further,  Mrs.  Banks  would  now  have  quashed  any 
resistance  on  the  part  of  Sherry,  had  any  such  burglar 
of  a  thought  gained  entrance  to  his  mind. 

That  was  why  Mrs.  Banks  decided  to  stay  com- 
fortably in  her  seat  —  and  leave  matters  to  take  their 
course. 

Which  they  did. 


220  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Sylvia  was  saying  little  —  a  good  deal  less  than 
she  thought.  Nothing  had  been  lost  upon  Sylvia. 
Least  of  all  Sherry's  novel  and  thoroughly  typical 
method  of  pressing  his  suit.  Sylvia  too  might  look 
over  the  beauties  there,  and  wonder  how  many  would 
have  disdained  the  attentions  that  she  was  receiving. 

And  so  she  poured  forth  a  little  symphony  of 
laughter,  and  half-hearted  cautions,  and  smiles  and 
sparkles  of  the  eye.  It  was  all  she  might  permit  her- 
self. Not  being  a  Sherry  herself,  she  was  fearful  of 
betraying  too  much,  with  even  her  eyes. 

With  Sherry  it  was  different.  With  his  eyes  he 
was  saying  as  much  as  with  his  tongue,  if  that  is 
possible. 

"Sylvia" — the  words  were  coming  between  sips 
of  the  gratefully  hot  coffee  —  "I  know  you  think 
I  've  been  a  devil.  You  shrink  from  me.  Perhaps 
any  girl  would.  But  I  've  never  been  vicious.  I  'm 
not  exactly  —  smudged,  you  know.  You  believe  that, 
don't  you.>^  And  listen  to  every  word  I  say.  Do  me 
that  favour.  Because  I  've  got  it  from  Penning,  and 
I  've  committed  it  to  memory.  Don't  you  think 
that  a  fellow  like  me,  who  has  been  about  every- 
where, is  the  one  best  able  to  value  a  truly  wonder- 
ful girl.^  Nobody  knows  so  well  as  I  do  how  lovely 
and  good  you  are.     You  see.»^" 

"Oh,  really,  you  mustn't,  Sherry.  Not  —  not 
here." 

"If  not  here,  then  where,  pray!  No,  it's  true, 
Sylvia.  Your  holy  saints,  when  they  set  out  after 
a  girl,  are  just  plain  starved  ravening  beasts.  They  'd 
tell  any  girl  they  loved  her.  But  I  know  what  I  'm 
talking  about.  Don't  you  see?  Why,  Sylvia,  dear, 
I  've  scarcely  ever  touched  your  hand.     That 's  how 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  221 

I  admire  and  respect  your  wonderful  self.  Some  day, 
when  we  're  older,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  of  the  others 
that  spare  you  the  worst  in  men.  Poor  creatures, 
there  's  another  side  to  them,  too.  But  you  —  you 
are  like  a  wonderful  picture  or  statue,  so  rare  that 
one  would  fight  to  preserve  it,  for  the  few  of  us  that 
really  know  what  beauty  is.  You  see,  dear,  you  seem 
so  high  to  me,  because  I  look  up  from  such  a  depth. 
I  've  burned  out  all  the  dross  in  myself.  I  've  got 
no  interest  in  you  but  just  honest  worship.  Truly  I 
ought  not  to  say  such  things  into  your  ears.  But  it 's 
the  only  way  to  make  you  understand.  And  I  'm 
not  going  to  sail  under  false  colours.  Not  even  in 
the  matter  of  spouting  all  this.  It 's  true  that  I  got 
the  words  of  it  from  Penning,  but  I  've  always  had 
the  ideas  for  myself.  He  's  ahead  of  me  in  words, 
Sylvia,  but  not  in  heart.  Though,  maybe,  he 's 
ahead  of  me  even  there.  Do  you  know,  Sylvia,  I  'm 
not  sure  that  he  's  in  love  with  Annabel  .*^  I  believe 
he 's  just  knuckled  to  the  discovery  that  she 's 
awfully  taken  with  him.  Doesn't  he  get  away  with 
it  wonderfully?  Thank  heaven,  I  don't  have  to  pre- 
tend! Oh,  really,  Sylvia,  there  's  no  mistake  about 
my  loving  you!  Can't  —  can't  you  say  a  little  some- 
thing in  the  way  of  encouragement .^^  Sylvia!^  Before 
the  bell  rings.^     Just  a  little  word.!^" 

For  answer  she  flashed  upon  him  a  look  that  any 
man  in  the  world  would  have  thought  as  good  as  a 
battle  won,  a  great  book  written.  And  then  the  rush 
of  the  crowd  back  to  their  seats  for  the  second  half 
swept  them  along  in  its  eddies. 

"Oh,  there!"  Sherry  complained  as  they  toiled 
up  the  stairs,  step  by  step,  in  the  crush.  "Back  to 
the  crowd  again.    But  oh,  that  minute  or  two  alone!" 


222  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

For  answer  he  felt  a  light  pressure  on  his  arm,  the 
first,  the  only,  token  he  had  received  from  Sylvia  of 
anything  above  a  sort  of  armed  neutrality. 

And  slight  as  it  was,  it  re-made  the  world  for  a 
Sherry  himself  re-made.  For  the  rest  of  the  game, 
and  the  rest  of  its  cheering,  the  lyrical  totally  sup- 
planted the  argumentative  in  his  asides  to  her  ear. 

Was  there  any  resisting  even  his  honesty?  Sylvia's 
eyes  and  Sylvia's  cheeks  thenceforward  registered  a 
steady  negative. 

"Of  course  you  understand,  Sylvia,  dear,"  he  was 
careful  once  to  explain.  "I  'm  not  fooling  you.  I  'm 
never  going  to  be  Senator,  or  Governor,  as  Penning  is. 
But  I  'm  going  to  be  a  much  more  important  per- 
sonage than  that.  I  'm  going  to  be  the  husband  of 
Sylvia  Banks  —  of  Sylvia  Brookes.  That 's  wonder- 
ful enough  for  me,  thank  you!"  .  .  . 

By  seven  that  evening  the  ladies  had  donned  again 
their  glittering  regalia  and  joined  the  flagrantly  ex- 
ulting Sherry  in  the  dining-room  of  the  gay  hotel, 
amid  the  cheers  and  shouting  and  laughter  of  the 
victorious  partisans  of  Harvard.  To  their  wearied 
nerves  there  must  have  come  moments  of  wonder 
and  of  wishing  when  the  excitement  would  at  last 
subside  to  an  endurable  pitch. 

For  them  it  did  come  to  a  sudden  termination  when 
a  boy  in  green  uniform  passed  among  the  tables 
crying  the  name  of  "Mrs.  J.  Johnson  Banks,  please. 
Mrs.  J.   Johnson  Banks." 

And  on  Sherry's  hailing  him,  he  placed  in  Mrs. 
Banks's  hand  a  telegram,  which  she  read,  and  then 
said, 

"Oh,  dear!  .  .  .  What  do  you  suppose  is  the 
matter!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  223 

To  Sherry  there  seemed  something  pleasantly  sig- 
nificant in  her  handing  it  at  once  to  him,  and  he 
read : — 

"Come  home  at  once."    That  was  all. 

"It's  from  the  Senator,  isn't  it?"  he  said  va- 
cantly. Then  as  he  collected  something  of  tact,  he 
added,  "He's  homesick,  that's  all.     Not  ill,  surely." 

"Oh,  it's  something  serious.  See?"  Mrs.  Banks 
reached  across  and  pointed  to  the  yellow  paper  that 
engaged  Sherry's  stare.  "It's  serious.  He's  signed 
it  'Joshua.'" 

Sherry  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  heart 
full  of  "damns,"  and  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his 
trouser  pockets.  "I  think  we'd  better  go  home  a 
little  sooner  than  we  had  planned,  Mrs.  Banks,"  he 
decided.  "But  we  needn't  exactly  hurry.  That  is, 
you  needn't.  And  you  needn't  worry.  I  think  I 
know  what  it  means.  And  I  '11  proceed  to  see  that  it 
means  nothing." 

The  two  ladies  insisted,  however,  on  leaving  at 
once,  and  over  the  telephone  Sherry  was  able  to 
commandeer  for  them  a  lucky  stateroom,  and  for 
himself  a  last  upper,  on  the  one  o'clock  train  that 
same  night  for  New  York. 

And  at  three  the  next  afternoon  they  were  met  at 
the  station  in  Rossacre  by  Senator  Banks,  breathless, 
pale,  ill,  broken,  and  a  badly  beaten  man. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THEY  arrived  in  Rossacre  at  three.  At  per- 
haps three-fifteen  Sherry  Brookes  brushed  past 
the  doorman  who  guarded  the  private  office 
at  the  rear  of  Landis  &  Co.,  whose  banking  house 
faced  Court  House  Square,  and  strode  into  the 
Presence. 

Standing  over  Landis  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  Sherry, 
following  his  own  style  in  diplomacy,  said  quietly, 
"You  rat!  You've  tried  it  on,  have  you?  Well, 
to-morrow  The  Globe  comes  out  with  your  story.  It 's 
all  written." 

By  then  the  big  doorman  and  half  a  dozen  other 
employes  of  the  bank,  perhaps  coached  by  their  chief, 
had  edged  within  the  glass-enclosed  private  area. 
They  stood  at  attention,  merely,  nevertheless,  as 
Sherry  seized  the  back  of  a  heavy  mahogany  chair 
and  swung  round  so  that  he  had  the  crowd  of  them 
before  him. 

"Now  then,  hound!"  he  said,  a  little  louder,  that 
no  word  might  be  subject  to  equivocation.  "I  give 
you  just  two  weeks  longer  in  this  town,  to  clear  up 
your  affairs.  After  that  it  won't  be  a  safe  place 
for  you.  Look  at  him!"  he  urged  upon  the  faithful 
retainers.     And  they  looked. 

It  was  clear  that  they  were  present  under  orders, 
and  not  subject  to  the  compulsion  of  loyalty.  In 
his  bank  Landis  was  plainly  the  Landis  known  to 
the  town. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  225 

"Looks  like  a  dead  man.  Pale  green!  By  God- 
frey, there  's  nothing  about  you  sweet  enough  to  be 
called  a  stench!"  he  hurled  down  at  the  almost 
apoplectic  man  seated  beside  him,  "One  hesitates 
to  crush  you,  on  account  of  the  nasty  spot  you  'd 
make.  But  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing  more.  This  town 
belongs  to  three  men  still  —  Senator  J,  Johnson 
Banks,  Andrew  Penning,  and  myself.  Now  if  you 
haven't  the  intelligence  to  get  out  of  here  in  two 
weeks  of  your  own  accord,  I  've  got  the  names  of 
fifty  men  who  are  sworn  to  help  me  ride  you  out  on 
a  rail.  And  by  heavens,  I  've  a  notion  we  '11  first 
take  you  out  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  woods  and  give 
you  the  spanking  of  your  life.  It 's  time  you  learned 
that  a  man  can't  pull  off  just  anything  he  pleases  in 
this  world.  And  if  you  go  to  New  York  or  Phila- 
delphia, or  Boston  or  Chicago,  I  '11  follow  you  there. 
I  know  cJl  the  moneyed  men  in  this  country.  You 
had  fair  enough  warning  before.  Now  I  tell  you 
you  can't  take  a  step,  anywhere,  unless  I  say  so. 
Oh,  don't  put  up  your  fists!"  Sherry  laughed.  For 
Landis,  his  teeth  clenched,  his  face  white  as  chalk, 
had  risen  to  his  feet,  a  good  deal  impressed  by  the 
warning,  and  yet  angry  to  the  point  of  blindness, 
with  a  long  steel  paper-knife  in  his  hands.  Not  a 
beautiful  picture,  with  his  small  grey  eyes,  placed 
closely  together,  now  closer  than  ever  under  his  angry 
frown.  "I  can  beat  you  more  easily  with  my  fists 
than  I  can  with  my  head,"  Sherry  was  saying. 

"McGuire!"    Landis  choked  out,  to  his  doorman. 

The  doorman  duly  stepped  forward,  in  answer  to 
the  caU  of  duty.  He  met  a  lightning  blow  on  the 
jaw,  and  another  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  And  the 
next  moment,  to  his  vast  surprise,  and  to  the  stupe- 


226  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

faction  of  the  bystanders,  the  great  hulk  was  gasping 
for  breath  and  writhing  on  the  floor. 

After  gingerly  stepping  over  him,  Sherry  turned  to 
say,  finally,  to  the  equally  astonished  Landis,  and  the 
helpless  crowd  that  surrounded  him, 

"You  've  got  a  pair  of  ears,  and  you  heard  what  I 
said." 

Then,  glancing  down  over  his  attire,  to  see  that  it 
was  still  in  perfect  order,  Sherry  walked  to  the  front 
door  and  out  upon  the  street. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

COPIES  of  a  certain  issue  of  The  Globe  still  sell 
at  a  slight,  a  very  slight,  premium  in  Rossacre. 
People  of  every  degree  there  still  remember 
the  evening  when  they  read  Sherry's  article  of  ex- 
posure. Some  of  them,  the  more  civilised,  rather 
deprecated  Sherry's  good  taste,  even  doubted  his 
good  sense,  in  such  a  betrayal.  The  rest  of  Rossacre's 
citizenship  applauded  Sherry.  On  every  ground  ex- 
cept the  moral,  be  it  understood.  A  good  many  of 
the  good  people  of  Rossacre  had  approved  of  Walker 
Landis.  Many  of  their  hopes  and  aspirations  he  had 
effectively  personified.  A  good  many  of  them,  possess- 
ing equal  quantities  of  the  "nerve"  that  Landis 
admired,  would  have  behaved  in  the  same  manner. 
But  they  were  willing  to  see  even  the  admired  Landis 
sacrificed,  so  long  as  it  helped  relieve  the  dullness  of 
life. 

The  business  reverses  of  Senator  Banks  were  al- 
most as  refreshing.  A  good  many  Rossacrats  deeply 
and  truly  sympathised  with  the  Senator.  Still,  a 
more  important  thing  was  that  life  should  be  inter- 
esting, and  it  was  mainly  incidental  what  means  befell 
the  Senator  to  crowd  aside  the  popular  movie  actor 
for  the  time. 

If  he  had  wished,  the  Senator  might  have  scuttled 
and  got  out  from  under.  As  a  last  resort  he  might 
have  let  the  road  pass  into  the  control  of  Landis  and 
saved  his  own  skin.     But  the  Senator  was  not  of  that 


228  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

kidney.  Like  any  other  good  American  business  man, 
he  had  never  made  a  dollar  without  borrowing  an- 
other. Yet,  not  like  all  other  good  Americans,  these 
borrowings  constituted  an  obligation  to  him.  The 
borrowing  of  near  to  half  a  million  for  improvements 
to  the  street  railway,  on  the  personal  note  of  Banks 
as  president,  the  Senator  felt  as  a  responsibility  of 
his  own.  And  when  Walker  Landis,  in  violation  of  a 
gentlemen's  agreement,  chose  to  retain  possession  of 
the  physical  assets  of  the  company,  tendered  to  him 
as  a  formal  security  for  his  name  on  the  note,  noth- 
ing was  left  to  the  Senator  but  to  make  good  out  of 
his  own  means  the  full  sum  that  Landis  had  taken  to 
himself.  One  after  another  of  his  business  enter- 
prises fell  in  the  succession  of  sacrifices  necessary  to 
his  satisfaction  of  his  debt.  His  Scranton  coal  mine 
was  involved.  So  was  his  West  Virginia  lumber  tract, 
and  half  a  dozen  other  important  ventures.  All  were 
burdened  with  borrowings,  and  so,  with  the  corner- 
stone withdrawn,  the  whole  fabric  of  his  fortune 
collapsed. 

The  directors  of  the  street  railway  company  were 
driven  to  accept  his  resignation  as  president.  Half  a 
dozen  other  promising  enterprises  went  through  the 
same  formality.  And  in  two  weeks  the  Banks  family 
were  treating  Rossacre  to  the  sensation  of  their  re- 
moval from  their  castellated  house  on  the  Avenue, 
with  the  fountain,  and  the  lawn,  and  the  marble 
statue  of  George  Washington  in  classic  robes  and  his 
arm  in  a  sling,  as  if  in  immediate  discharge  from  a 
hospital;  and  immediately  the  Senator  was  besieging 
his  friends  for  a  job  as  book-keeper  or  in  any  other 
serviceable  capacity. 

Naturally,   promptly,   Sherry  Brookes  stepped  for- 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  229 

ward  there.  Sylvia  only  refused  the  more  stub- 
bornly, as  Sherry  argued  the  more  eagerly,  to  debase 
romance  to  the  purposes  of  practical  life-saving.  For 
a  time  at  least  she  preferred  a  personal  service  of 
her  own.  She  burned  to  help  her  father  back  to 
fortune,  and  not  simply  to  a  home  on  another's 
generosity.  Nothing  could  shake  her  determination 
to  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  her  father.  And 
with  instant  enterprise  she  shocked  the  town  and 
sought  a  job  in  a  down- town  millinery. 

Two  weeks  later  still  the  Rossacre  Clarion,  a 
starvelling  sheet  of  no  great  import  above  a  stalwart 
devotion  to  the  principle  of  Prohibition,  appeared 
with  an  obviously  paid  announcement  to  the  effect 
that  larger  interests  invited  the  removal  of  Walker  P. 
Landis  to  New  York,  with  the  transfer  of  his  now 
important  banking  business.  But  after  Sherry's 
article  of  exposure,  no  one  was  deceived  by  this  sugar 
coating  which  Landis  put  about  his  pill. 

One  man  only  in  Rossacre  looked  upon  the  de- 
clension of  Senator  Banks  with  anything  like  a  per- 
sonal concern  —  and  even  he  for  reasons  of  self.  The 
dramatic  descent  of  the  Senator  served  the  purpose 
of  overshadowing  the  decline  of  Judge  Gayland. 

Gayland's  former  grand  airs  had  hurt  so  many 
jealousies  and  vanities,  he  had  excited  so  many  un- 
happy comparisons,  in  his  campaign  he  had  despite- 
fully  used  so  many  good  names,  that  Rossacre  had 
preserved  not  simply  a  dry  eye  but  a  large  measure 
of  satisfaction  at  his  own  misfortunes. 

In  due  time  Gayland  was  re-elected  to  the  Judge- 
ship of  L County,  whatever  little  that  predicated 

of  his  re-establishment  in  Rossacre  esteem,  social  or 
moral.     When,  very  late  that  Autumn,  "the  season" 


230  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

really  got  into  full  swing  many  a  dowager  paused 
long  at  the  name  of  Gayland  on  her  list.  The  Went- 
worths  and  Wyeths  did  experiment  daringly,  in  the 
instance  of  a  general  assembly  at  the  Opera  House. 
Over  those  two  invitations  the  pride  of  Gayland  had 
a  struggle,  and  pride  easily  won  the  day.  He  refused 
to  exhibit  himself  as  he  was  then.  In  vain  Mrs.  Gay- 
land pleaded  and  wept.  She  even  took  to  her  bed, 
ill  at  his  refusal  to  accept  this  doubtful  homage. 
Afterwards  she  made  her  call,  punctually,  as  became 
her,  and  doubtless  confided  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  and 
to  Mrs.  Wyeth  all  her  thoughts  upon  God's  evident 
displeasure  with  the  Gayland  family,  plainly  caused 
by  the  sudden  callousness  of  her  husband  and  her 
daughter  toward  the  simplest  demands  of  etiquette. 

Indeed  the  whole  trend  of  affairs  in  the  Gayland 
household,  it  is  a  duty  to  report,  was  in  a  state  of 
unfashionable  melancholy.  To  the  Judge  life  offered 
just  next  to  nothing  at  all.  The  Judgeship  was  still 
his,  of  course,  but  long  ago  he  had  exhausted  what- 
ever there  was  of  honour  in  the  station.  Now  every- 
body knew  that  he  consented  to  occupy  it  out  of 
necessity.  And  he  was  removed  from  the  world,  out 
of  harness,  out  of  countenance,  in  being  out  of  social 
sovereignty  over  Rossacre.  The  Judgeship  had  be- 
come a  hollow  thing  now,  a  drag,  rightfully  named 
the  Drudgeship,  as  it  was  by  Annabel.  Moreover  the 
Judge's  health  had  reached  a  pitch  of  indifference 
that  it  gave  him  trouble  any  longer  to  conceal.  It 
is  true  that  Mrs.  Branstane  did  a  second  time  offer 
him  money  —  and  a  second  time  raged  to  see  how  it 
melted  away  in  the  settlement  of  election  bills  as 
before. 

Mrs.   Branstane  had   now   all  the  old   scores,   and 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  231 

many  new  ones,  to  see  settled.  For  weeks  Mrs. 
Branstane's  claims  upon  the  Judge  had  been  set  aside. 
All  through  this  engrossing  contest  for  the  Judgeship 
she  had  chafed  away  in  the  background,  a  subordinate, 
a  superfluity.  With  Ira's  affairs  in  that  state  of  sus- 
pense even  self-interest  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  dictated  that  she  should  let  him  alone,  —  to 
strengthen  himself  for  further  habitual  responses  to 
her  demands.  Even  Mrs.  Gayland  herself,  in  that 
stretch  of  political  suspense,  fended  by  the  general 
stress  of  circumstance,  luxuriated  in  almost  complete 
immunity  from  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 
Neflie. 

Now  that  the  Judgeship  contest  was  favourably 
decided,  Mrs.  Gayland's  immunity  became  even  more 
complete.  Nellie  had  worthier  prey.  Nellie  scrupled 
longer  to  waste  her  energies  on  Mrs.  Gayland.  Nellie 
had  a  more  important  usurper  to  displace.  Her  old 
dominion  over  the  Judge  needed  to  be  restored. 
Weeks  of  neglect,  weeks  of  emancipation  from  her, 
called  to  be  avenged.  The  dizzy  height  of  superiority 
over  the  Gaylands  which  she  had  attained  by  shining 
against  their  mistakes  and  misfortunes  and  that  she 
lost  by  relative  unimportance  beside  their  weighty  life 
concerns  —  all  that  was  to  be  regained.  Annabel 
she  might  have  spared,  seeing  what  Annabel  had 
wrought,  or  sought  to  accomplish,  toward  her  social 
advancement.  What,  however,  was  the  little  that 
Annabel  had  wrought,  beside  the  much  more  that 
Annabel  should  have  wrought  in  all  these  years  of 
neglect ! 

Everything  in  the  world  was  translatable  into  an 
obligation  to  Mrs.  Branstane. 

And  so  Mrs.  Branstane  now  moved  about  the  Gay- 


232  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

land  house  with  a  furtive  eye  and  a  velvet  tread,  as 
if  the  opportunity  of  her  own  advancement  were  some 
tangible  thing,  that  might  flee  at  her  approach.  And, 
in  time,  she  duly  arrived  at  just  the  opening  she 
awaited  to  pounce  upon. 

By  then  the  Judge  had  taken  to  wandering  through 
the  rooms  of  his  mansion  by  himself,  dreamily  sur- 
veying its  grandeur,  once  so  admired  and  now  so 
neglected  and  empty,  fairly  sick  at  this  sense  of  its 
slipping  away.  Lovingly  he  would  feel  of  a  curtain, 
or  stroke  the  polished  surface  of  a  table.  They 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  dimly  remembered  past.  Some- 
times he  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  Annabel,  in  a  far 
corner  of  the  house;  and,  if  the  light  were  just  right, 
he  might  mark  on  her  face  a  look  quite  different  from 
that  she  always  had  ready  when  she  knew,  or  sus- 
pected, that  he  was  near.  And  he  would  stand  so, 
in  the  distance,  unobserved,  and  watch  the  girl,  till 
the  vision  of  her  swam  away  in  a  sudden  mist  in  his 
eyes;  and  then  he  would  hurry  away  to  the  privacy 
of  his  own  room. 

On  one  of  these  excursions  of  appreciation  through 
his  house  the  Judge  once  encountered  Mrs.  Branstane. 
It  was  in  the  afternoon.  Annabel  and  her  mother 
were  out  on  some  errand  or  call,  and  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  alone  in  the  library,  ostensibly  to  dust,  but  really 
to  intercept  the  Judge,  of  purpose,  as  he  returned  at 
the  end  of  his  day  of  work,  his  top-coat  still  upon  him 
and  his  hat  in  his  hand.  There  was  something  signifi- 
cant in  their  meeting  thus,  the  Judge  garbed  as  he 
was,  like  a  visitor,  and  Mrs.  Branstane  so  perfectly 
and  comfortably  at  home. 

"Oh-er-Nellie!"  the  Judge  stammered,  feeling,  if 
not  taking  definite  notice  of,  these  facts  in  his  situa- 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  233 

tion.  And  by  way  of  making  it  seem  the  more 
natural,  to  himself  at  least,  he  finished,  "Could  — 
could  you  let  me  have  a  shade  more  money  —  a 
thousand  or  two,  this  week?  I  '11  give  you,  as  se- 
curity —  " 

"Well?"  Mrs.  Branstane  smiled,  in  full  enjoyment 
of  his  embarrassment  and  indecision.  "Just  what 
will  you  give  me?  What  will  you  give  me?  What 
have  you  got  left  to  give?" 

For  answer  the  Judge  could  only  turn  away  in 
hope  of  escape. 

But  Mrs.  Branstane  stayed  him,  "You  poor 
pauper!  You  miserable  fool!"  she  hurled  at  him 
boldly. 

The  leash  upon  her  long-pent,  long-starved  rage, 
was  slipping,  and  she  was  fairly  raging  with  it. 
Venomous.  Combat  she  had  always  lived  for.  But 
now  the  Judge's  battered  sensitiveness  longed  only 
to  fly  from  this  mailed  brutality.  He  only  stood  and 
smiled  at  her,  sheepishly. 

"Well!"  Mrs.  Branstane  granted  herself  the  pleas- 
ure of  comment  on  the  abjectness  of  his  surrender. 
"I  guess  this  is  the  end  of  everything.  Isn't  it?  .  .  . 
Nothing  more  for  you,  eh?  .  .  .  This  is  where  we 
land  at  last,  you  see.  After  all  that 's  been.  Fine, 
isn't  it!  .  .  .  But  wasn't  it  grand  while  it  lasted! 
My  work,  and  your  glory,  too,  that 's  what  it  was. 
Do  you  ever  seriously  think  you  made  your  own 
success  in  life,  such  as  it  was?  Do  you  ever  really 
think  you  furnished  the  brains  that  made  it?  H'm! 
What  I  didn't  give  you,  you  got  by  luck!  You've 
got  the  Judgeship  again,  but  ho-ow  did  you  get  it-? 
By  your  own  deserts?  H'm!  It's  been  handed  to 
you,  by  a  real  man.     A  man  so  big  that  he  didn't 


234  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

want  to  bother  with  it,  and  flung  it  in  your  face. 
Ho-ow  did  you  ever  get  all  your  money  in  the  first 
place?  Why-y,  it  was  flung  in  your  face,  given  to 
you  by  your  friends,  that 's  how!  You  simply  laid  on 
the  airs  good  and  thick,  and  puffed  out  your  chest,  and 
pretended  to  know  everything;  and  the  poor  ignorant 
fools  here  took  you  for  a  man  of  brains  and  laid  their 
money  at  your  feet.  For  showing  them  how  to  dance 
and  take  their  soup  nicely.     That 's  how." 

Mrs.  Branstane  allowed  herself  a  moment  to  laugh. 

"Now  they've  found  you  out,"  she  drove  on  at 
him  again.  "And  the  whole  town  hates  you  for 
having  fooled  it  so  long.  The  whole  town  knows  you 
and  hates  you.  The  wonder  is  that  you  could  fool  it 
as  long  as  you  did.  But  that  —  was  because  of  me. 
You  understand?  Because  of  me.  Me,  me,  me!  / 
built  you  up.  Who  else  was  there  to  do  it?  /  did  it, 
I  teU  you.  I,  I,  I!  Ugh!  .  .  .  And  what  did  I  get 
out  of  it  in  all  these  years  —  except  kicks  and  cuffs 
and  a  place  in  the  back  of  the  house!  To  think  of 
it!     Why  did  I  do  it!     Why  —  did  —  I  —  do  it!" 

There  the  thwarted  ambition,  the  baffled  cupidity, 
her  consciousness  of  her  years,  too  many  of  them 
wasted  in  pursuit  of  this  disappointing  quarry  —  all 
the  springs  that  went  to  move  the  engine  that  was 
Mrs.  Branstane  whirred  off  into  loud  laughter. 

In  reply  there  was  nothing  for  the  Judge  to  say. 

Long  this  woman  had  pretended  to  have  suffered 
on  his  account,  in  having  loved  him,  and  worked  for 
love  of  him.  Truly,  in  some  crude  fashion,  she  had 
helped  him,  as  she  boasted.  Still,  would  claims  so 
extravagant  as  hers  upon  his  gratitude  have  obtained 
anywhere  except  at  the  court  of  his  rather  easy 
generosity? 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  235 

Puzzled,  silent,  worn,  the  Judge  fumbled  his  hat 
as  he  faced  the  woman  and  looked  dreamily,  vacantly, 
into  her  face,  into  this  strange  and  unaccountable 
and  seething  intelligence,  that  had  enveloped  him, 
like  a  disease,  and  had  fettered  and  broken  and 
throttled  him,  and  brought  him  to  the  pass  where  he 
was.  Wearily  he  smiled  at  their  differing  views  of 
his  life. 

But  he  said  nothing.     It  was  too  late. 

"Oh,  you've  simply  got  your  deserts,  that's  all!" 
the  tongue  was  running  on.  "You  could  buy  your- 
self a  grand  time  while  the  money  lasted  —  the  gift 
money,  the  luck  money.  Now  the  money  's  all  gone, 
isn't  it?  And  a  man's  nonsense  edways  comes  back 
on  him  in  time.  You  never  thought  of  me  in  all 
these  years  —  except  when  you  needed  brains  for 
your  dinner  cards,  and  —  and  everything  else.  You 
never  thought  of  anybody  but  yourself,  and  your 
grand  airs  —  and  your  elegant  daughter  and  your 
wife,  and  their  grand  airs.  At  my  expense.  You 
never  thought  of  the  pain  and  hunger  that  /  was 
going  through.  You  never  thought  of  the  wrong 
you  had  done.  Of  the  years  you  had  taken  out  of 
my  life." 

By  then  Mrs.  Branstane  had  dropped  the  Judge, 
as  a  subject  irrelevant  and  immaterial.  Naturally, 
logically,  inevitably  she  had  drifted  to  the  more 
fascinating  topic  of  herself,  her  "wrongs,"  and  her 
ceaseless  and  unrequited  endeavours  "for  years"  in 
his  behalf. 

Mrs.  Branstane  finished  the  afternoon  pleased  with 
herself.  She  felt  herself  improving.  Never  had  she 
talked  so  well.  .  .  . 

All  "these  years"   Mrs.   Branstane  had  been  stab- 


236  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

bing  Judge  Gayland  with  daily  convictions  of  his 
worthlessness.  This  was  the  last  stab.  From  that 
last  afternoon  Judge  Gayland  never  recovered. 

Still  Annabel  would  hand  him  his  hat,  or  hold  for 
him  his  coat,  those  early  December  mornings  as  he 
set  out  to  his  work  —  and  would  hide  from  him  the 
worn  velvet  of  his  collar. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fine  if  /  could  do  your  Judging 
for  you!"  she  would  say.  Or,  "I  wish.  Daddy,  that 
I  could  be  tired  in  your  place."  Or  sometimes,  when 
the  sun  was  especially  bright  and  the  air  crisp,  she 
was  able  to  accomplish  real  gaiety,  for  his  benefit, 
and  say, 

"Now,  Daddy,  not  too  much  work  to-day,  remem- 
ber.    Too  much  suicide  will  kill  any  man." 

Often,  for  all  these  happy  sallies  on  the  part  of 
Annabel,  and  sometimes  because  of  them,  first  Anna- 
bel's father,  and  then  the  Judge's  daughter,  would 
think  of  some  forgotten  but  wanted  article  in  a  room 
above  stairs  —  and  would  return  no  more  that  even- 
ing. 

January  arrived.  And  with  it  the  ceremony  of 
swearing  in  Ira  Gayland  for  another  term  as  Judge  of 
the  Common  Pleas  Court,  of  the  Court  of  Oyer  and 
Terminer,  and  of  the  Orphans'  Court,  of  the  district 
represented  by  L County. 

For  the  first  three  weeks  of  his  new  term  Judge 
Gayland  held  well  to  his  work,  even  renewed  by  it. 
Then  he  took  to  his  bed,  too  weary,  he  was  brought 
to  admit,  for  a  foot  to  be  stirred,  a  pen  applied  to 
paper.  The  next  week,  under  the  eye  of  good  Dr. 
Richter,  his  malady  was  seen  to  be  a  progressive 
nervous  and  mental  depletion,  and  his  days  on  the 
bench,  and  perhaps  in  life,  were  numbered. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  237 

When  they  told  the  truth  to  Annabel,  as  she  de- 
manded, she  walked  to  her  room  and  they  saw  nothing 
of  her  for  two  days. 

So  the  giddy  years  of  her  girlhood  were  gone,  the 
frivolous  years  that  represented  a  total  blank  of  costly 
and  idle  pleasures,  of  dresses  only,  and  drives  and 
travels  and  indulgences  generally.  The  new  years 
that  she  had  visioned  too  late,  of  devotion  and  cheer, 
were  not  to  be  kissed  into  being.  This  wondrous  new 
continent  of  Friendship  she  had  lately  discovered, 
like  a  second  Columbus,  whose  cool  groves  of  sym- 
pathy, whose  meadows  of  solace  and  succour  she  had 
planned  to  roam  with  him,  —  this  continent  had 
turned  out  to  be  after  all  but  a  narrow  little  island. 
And  Annabel  was  left  standing  upon  its  farthest 
coast,  looking  off  over  the  lonely  puzzle  of  existence. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THEY  did  for  the  stricken  Judge  what  it  was 
possible  to  do.  It  says  much  that  the  night 
nurse,  happening  to  leave  the  sick-room  one 
morning  at  five,  found  Annabel  crouched  against  the 
door,  and  asleep,  where  she  had  crouched,  sleeplessly 
before,   the   night   through. 

Even  Mrs.  Branstane  thawed  and  relented,  and 
thought  of  and  paid  for  some  of  the  costlier  need- 
ments and  relaxations  that  it  did  not  occur  to  the 
physician  or  the  family  to  provide.  Twice  she  hired 
a  motor  to  give  him  an  airing.  And  in  the  house  she 
hovered  about,  and  thought  of  minor  ministrations 
she  might  perform,  and  even  spoke  the  cheering  word. 

She  would  have  done  better  to  have  kept  from  view. 

When  she  came  to  his  chamber  the  Judge  followed 
her  about  with  a  burning  eye.  In  her  presence  he 
shrivelled,  or  else  was  aroused  to  a  fever  of  resistance. 
She  seemed  to  him  a  malignant  shape,  the  personifi- 
cation of  his  ruin,  the  embodiment  of  all  the  worry- 
ing potentialities  that  she  had  shaken  over  his  head 
all  "these  years,"  until  now  he  was  like  to  die  for 
dread  of  them.  He  remembered,  too,  in  the  still 
hours  of  his  vain  hopes  of  health,  Mrs.  Branstane's 
hint  that  his  very  death  need  not  end  the  payment 
of  his  great  mystic  debt  to  her.  And  so  all  that  was 
dear  to  him,  some  of  it  inexpressibly  dear,  his  sick 
imagination  was  leaving  undefended  to  the  powers 
in  this  woman. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  239 

Penning  did  call,  not  once  but  early  and  many 
times,  could  the  Judge  have  known.  The  first  time 
met  at  the  door  by  Miss  Annabel  herself.  And  they 
had  retired  together  to  a  quiet  spot  in  the  house. 

"I  —  I've  left  you  alone,"  he  began. 

"Yes,  but  think  how  childish  I  've  been!"  she 
answered.  .  .  . 

As  for  Mrs.  Branstane,  Mrs.  Branstane  now  con- 
descended with  entire  cheerfulness.  Already  she  was 
living  in  the  future,  and  endured  all  her  present 
distresses  and  tasks  with  patience,  and  roamed  about 
the  great  house  with  a  constant  smile,  and  with 
nothing  now  to  dispute  her  notion  of  proprietorship. 

"Well,  Ira!"  she  once  said  to  the  Judge,  in  one 
of  his  remaining  moments  of  good  sense.  "It's  hard 
to  say  'Good-bye,'  isn't  it!  But  I  doubt  if  you'll 
ever  be  fully  yourself  again.  So  they  tell  me.  Of 
course  it 's  too  bad  that  you  have  to  tail  off  like  this. 
Let  me  see.  You  're  only  fifty,  aren't  you?  —  and 
might  have  lived  and  worked  on.  But  then,  you  know 
how  you  have  lived  in  your  time!" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  saying!" 

The  interruption  had  come  from  Penning,  who 
happened  to  come  at  that  moment  to  the  sick-room 
to  inquire. 

For  answer  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  from  the  foot 
of  the  bed  where  she  stood  and  blazed  at  the  man 
who  stood  in  the  door. 

Straight  up  to  her  Penning  stepped  and,  looking 
all  his  aversion,  said,  "Leave  the  room." 

And  Mrs.  Branstane  left  it. 

However,  the  Judge  had  been  spared  her  final 
infliction,  having  sunk  into  one  of  the  blank  periods 
that  were  characteristic  of  his  distemper. 


240  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

Even  Annabel,  who  was  following  Penning,  looked 
from  her  father  to  Mrs.  Branstane  and  to  Penning 
himself,  with  a  vision  dulled  by  thought  of  other 
things. 

She  waited  absently  till  Mrs.  Branstane  had  passed 
through  the  door.  Then  suddenly  she  waved  the 
nurse,  and  Penning,  and  even  the  doctor,  out  of  the 
room.  .  .  . 

By  some  merciful  arrangement  of  Nature  our  minds 
are  commonly  staggered  by  crises.  Mercifully  the 
realisation  comes  only  bit  by  bit. 

Till  they  had  closed  the  door  behind  them  Annabel 
waited.  Then  she  sank  to  her  knees  beside  her 
father's  bed,  and  threw  her  arms  across  it. 

"Father  —  father!"    she  cried. 

But  though  she  stroked  his  hands,  and  though  the 
Judge's  eyes  were  open  and  vacantly  roved,  he  never 
heard. 

"Father,  come  back  to  me  —  please!"  .  .  . 

Outside  the  chamber  door  the  doctor,  standing  in 
readiness,  caught  the  light  noise  of  her  body  slipping 
limply  to  the  floor. 


BOOK  THREE 


CHAPTER  I 

FOR  some  time  the  Hon.  Andrew  Penning  had 
felt  a  very  considerable  astonishment  at  the 
procession  of  events  past  him.  He  now  felt 
even  more  astonishment  as  he  himself  became  a 
parader  in  them. 

And  while  the  Honourable  Andrew  enjoyed  the 
assistance  of  a  very  striking  set  of  circumstances,  the 
truth  remains  that  during  his  brief  term  as  President 

Judge  of  the  Common  Pleas  Court  of  L County 

he  made  a  thundering  ass  of  himself. 

On  the  retirement  of  Judge  Gayland  it  became  the 
Governor's  duty,  in  pursuance  of  procedure  fixed 
by  law,  to  appoint  a  successor  to  fill  the  vacancy 
until,  at  the  next  regular  election,  the  choice  of  the 
district  should  fall  upon  some  other  to  occupy  the 
post  for  the  full  term  of  ten  years. 

What  more  fitting  figure  for  this  temporary  in- 
convenience,  thought    the    Governor,   and    Rossacre, 

and  all  L County,   than  the  favourably  known 

Andrew  Penning?  Surely  the  Hon.  Andrew,  fore- 
sighted  as  he  might  be,  might  content  himself  with 

the   Judgeship   of   L County   for   so   little   as   a 

year  or  less?  Surely  the  Hon.  Andrew  might  feel  in 
some  trifling  fashion  flattered  by  a  temporary  Judge- 
ship? 

Fate,  it  appeared,  meant  never  to  have  done  with 
Andrew  Penning. 

And  though  Penning's  income  was  halved  in  the 


244  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

doing,  he  did  consent  to  humour  Fate  and  satisfy  the 
eternal  proprieties  and  Rossacre  and  Senator  Banks, 
who  engineered  the  appointment,  by  graciously  con- 
senting to  be  Judge  of  L County  for  the  greater 

part  of  a  year. 

With  due  social  and  legal  formalities  Rossacre  and 
the  County  saw  him  installed  in  office.  The  County 
Bar  Association  tendered  him  a  blazing  reception  at 
the  Lincoln  Club.  Brilliant  jurists  and  legal  lights 
from  far  away  came  to  felicitate  him.  The  elect  of 
Rossacre,  and  a  large  part  of  Rossacre  not  so  elect, 
wore  flaming  gowns  in  his  honour,  and  uncovered 
camphor-smelling  evening  garments,  that  Judge  Pen- 
ning might,  as  ran  the  stereotyped  phrase  of  the 
press,  be  suitably  inducted  into  office. 

So,  duly  made  Judge,  Penning  buckled  down  to  the 
stern  task  of  bringing  order  out  of  the  chaos  of  judicial 
affairs  bequeathed  him  by  the  harried  man  whose 
shoes  he  filled. 

With  his  professional  conscience  now  stirred  to  an 
exemplary  performance  of  his  new  duties.  Judge 
Penning  laboured  early  and  toiled  late.  Such  a  thing 
as  a  clock  he  forgot  completely,  and  Rossacre  drawing- 
rooms,  to  the  regret  of  their  political  wisdom,  saw  him 
not.  The  simple  greetings  which  he  bestowed  upon 
acquaintances  in  the  street  were  almost  the  one 
bubble  of  sociability  that  he  chose  to  send  up  out  of 
the  morass  of  work  in  which  he  found  himself. 

One  relaxation  only  did  the  young  Judge  permit 
himself  —  the  evenings  that  he  passed  in  the  company 
of  Miss  Gayland,  in  the  splendid  mansion  up  The 
Avenue.  There  a  now  well-practised  minister  to 
judicial  fatigues  was  rapidly  becoming  adept  in  the 
transfer  of  her  cheering   influences   from   the   former 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  245 

and  absent  president  of  her  world,  to  an  equally  will- 
ing and  weary  vice-president  who  came  for  restoration. 

He  also  accomplished  some  little  in  the  way  of  good 
comradeship  himself,  in  return.  It  struck  him  as 
wonderful,  Annabel's  bravery  and  spirit  in  her  trying 
situation.  To  Penning  it  had  never  occurred  before 
how  much  she  was  bearing  alone.  Courageously  she 
bore  the  shock  of  learning  the  true  and  unhappy  state 
of  her  father's  affairs.  With  a  stout  heart  and  a 
level  head  she  waited  the  laggard  legal  adjustment  of 
them  for  the  behoof  of  his  unhappy  family.  Yet 
through  all  this  business  Annabel  contrived  an  eager 
curiosity  toward  Penning's  own  affairs. 

It  seemed  to  him,  one  night  very  late  as  he  thought 
of  this  before  the  fire  in  his  rooms,  that  she  had  been 
cheering  him  at  his  work  a  long  time  before  he  had 
noticed  it.  Looking  back,  he  was  amazed  to  measure 
the  extent  of  his  reliance  upon  her  spirits  —  through 
the  infinite  irritations  of  his  work,  the  impact  of 
appeals  for  small  offices  within  his  appointment,  the 
appeal  of  the  more  stupid  young  lawyers  who  be- 
sought his  counsel  in  their  first  affairs,  the  deputa- 
tions of  uplifters  and  enthusiasts  and  downright 
cranks  from  the  ranks  of  the  Woman's  Civic  Club, 
who  forever  drafted  his  sympathy  and  support  in 
one  or  other  of  their  schemes  of  petty  reform. 

They  wanted  more  artistic  bridges  over  the  ram- 
bling streams  of  the  County.  They  demanded  fewer 
saloons  in  a  given  district.  They  presented  bills  of 
particulars  against  the  character  of  various  County 
officers.  They  were,  in  a  word,  like  all  their  kind  all 
over  our  dear  country,  a  colossal  and  compendious 
nuisance.  They  clogged  the  wheels  of  Justice,  they 
ditched  the  car  of  Progress. 


246  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

One  morning  early  in  February  of  the  following 
year  the  current  of  the  County's  legal  business  was 
halted  by  the  good  ladies  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  who, 
though  bent  upon  quite  other  concerns,  unwittingly 
started  Judge  Penning's  affairs  on  the  way  to  that 
striking  upheaval  which  marked  this  period  in  Ross- 
acre  history. 

The  ladies  rustled  into  Court's  Chambers  with 
much  display  of  silk,  fur,  feathers,  and  civic  righteous- 
ness. Their  errand  was  to  "bring  every  pressure  to 
bear"  upon  the  young  Judge  to  restrict  the  number 
of  licenses  to  be  granted  that  Spring.  So  only,  they 
brought  every  feminine  form  of  argument  to  bear, 
could  the  bliss  of  mankind  be  properly  conserved. 

Graciously  Judge  Penning  heard  them  through, 
and  disappointed  their  high  hopes  of  him  with  a 
refusal  to  do  more  than  take  the  matter  under  ad- 
visement. It  was  not  until  the  good  women  had 
gone,  with  murmurs  of  their  solemn  dissatisfaction, 
that  they  became,  without  their  own  knowledge,  the 
instruments  of  Destiny.  As  if  on  an  after-thought, 
one  of  the  ladies  had  remained,  and  begged  one 
moment  more  of  his  time.  In  her  neatly  gloved  hand 
she  carried  a  folded  paper  which  she  held  out  to  him 
with  a  smile  and  the  apology, 

"May  I  have  a  word  more,  Mr.  Penning.^^" 

"Oh!  Good  morning,  Mrs  —  ah  —  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane."  Penning  turned  about  again  at  his  desk, 
where  he  was  ostentatiously  preparing  to  begin  his 
work  afresh.  In  his  surprise  at  her  lingering  he  had 
almost  forgotten  the  lady's  name.  And  her  errand 
surprised  him  even  more. 

"A  bill?"  he  said,  opening  the  paper  which  she 
extended,   as   if  it  were   a  dangerous  explosive.     He 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  247 

looked   up   again   at   Mrs.    Branstane   in   a   moment, 
after  having  glanced  over  it  hastily. 

"It's  Fink's  bill,  yes,"  she  answered.  "The  — 
the  Gaylands'  grocer,  you  know." 

"Well?" 

"He  —  he  wants  his  money." 

"Has  he  dunned  the  family?" 

"He's  worried  Mrs.   Gayland  almost  sick." 

"The  fool!  Didn't  you  tell  him  he  'd  be  paid  when 
we  get  the  trustees  to  work  on  Judge  Gayland's 
affairs?" 

"I  told  him,  yes.  But  he  thinks  I  am  only  trying 
to  dodge  him.     He  's  been  threatening  to  sue." 

"Sue?    The  idea!" 

"And  he's  threatened  to  see  Mrs.  Gayland  herself. 
You  know  she  's  in  no  shape  to  attend  to  such  mat- 
ters.    And  so  — " 

"Yes,  yes?" 

"I've  had  quite  a  time  to  keep  the  matter  from 
them  —  from  them  both."  As  if  in  embarrassment 
Mrs.  Branstane  laughed  her  low  laugh.  "It  has 
worried  me  no  end.  I  hated  to  trouble  you,  but  I 
thought  I  'd  see  you  about  it.  Maybe  you  could 
bring  Fink  to  his  senses." 

"Yes  —  yes."  Penning  studied  the  bill  more  care- 
fully. It  had,  indeed,  been  running  a  long  time. 
"Quite  right,  Mrs.  —  Mrs.  Branstane,"  he  said,  still 
poring  over  the  bill,  but  aware  that  some  acknowl- 
edgement of  his  visitor's  presence  was  due.  "I'll 
see  Fink  about  this  myself,"  he  said,  with  finality, 
folding  the  bill  and  stowing  it  in  an  inside  pocket. 
"  Meanwhile  it 's  thoughtful  of  you  to  have  come  to 
me.  I  'm  sure  Mrs.  Gayland  and  Miss  Gayland  will 
appreciate  that.     I  shall  tell  them,  in  good  time." 


248  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

"Oh,  why  tell  them,  and  worry  them,  at  any  time? 
At  least  until  the  bill  is  paid.  They  have  enough  to 
worry  them  as  it  is."  And  again  Mrs.  Branstane 
laughed  her  quiet  laugh,  as  if  in  embarrassment. 

"Quite  right.     A  good  idea." 

Without  being  aware  of  it,  Penning  had  spoken  to 
the  woman  with  more  deference,  and  in  a  tone  of 
more  respect,  than  he  had  ever  employed  toward  her 
before.  He  was  impressed.  Even  her  physical  pres- 
ence he  regarded  more  attentively  than  had  been  his 
custom.  Precisely  as  Mrs.  Branstane  had  hoped  and 
planned,  and  even  rehearsed  before  her  mirror.  Pen- 
ning was  touched  with  her  flattering  reference  to  him 
of  this  matter  of  intimate  difficulty  and  practical 
sentiment. 

"And  if  anything  else  of  the  kind  comes  up,  Mrs. 
Branstane,"  he  continued  kindly,  and  now  recalling 
her  name  without  difficulty,  "don't  hesitate  to  bring 
it  straight  to  me." 

Highly  gratified,  Mrs.  Branstane  took  her  departure. 

Over  the  frail  bridge,  the  lucky  device,  of  a  grocer's 
bill  she  had  edged  closer  to  Mr.  Penning  than  she 
had  ever  crowded  before.  And  in  four  days  more 
she  had  arrayed  herself  in  her  most  fetching  toilette 
for  another  consultation  with  Mr.  Penning.  Hadn't 
he  counselled  it? 

This  time  again  it  was  a  bill,  a  long-standing  ac- 
count for  dress  materials  against  the  Gayland  ladies 
on  the  part  of  another  merchant  who  had  grown 
impatient. 

As  Penning  took  this  matter  also  into  his  own  care, 
Mrs.  Branstane  thought  of  something  further. 

"Would  you  mind,  Mr.  Penning  —  Judge  Penning, 
pardon  me  —  recommending  me  to  some  new  provis- 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  249 

ion  house,  that  will  be  willing  to  give  credit  for  a 
while,  until  affairs  can  be  straightened  out?" 

That  also  Penning  promised  his  immediate  atten- 
tion. 

Other  visitors  presented  themselves  in  Court's 
Chambers  while  Mrs.  Branstane  was  there.  Possibly 
some  of  them  noticed  that  she  sought  to  linger  a 
minute  or  two,  unobtrusively. 

Not  certain  as  to  how  she  might  accomplish  it, 
Mrs,  Branstane  hoped  for  an  occasion  to  say  some- 
thing further,  that  might  put  her  relationship  with 
Judge  Penning,  slight  as  it  was,  on  a  footing  of  its 
own,  firmer,  and  apart  from  the  financial  trials  of  the 
Gaylands.  She  wanted  to  be  taken  for  a  personage 
in  herself,  and  not  always  as  a  humble  emissary  from 
the  Gayland  mansion. 

But  at  length,  seeing  that  in  the  press  of  more 
imposing  claims  upon  the  Judge's  time,  her  existence 
had  been  once  again  forgotten,  Mrs.  Branstane  with- 
drew. 

The  next  one  of  her  calls  upon  Judge  Penning, 
however,  that  dignitary  never  forgot  so  long  as  he 
lived. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  L County  Court  House,  a  brick  build- 
ing of  uncertain  war-time  architecture  and  of 
no  very  great  distinction,  placed  in  a  small 
tree-shaded  square,  gives  up  almost  the  whole  of  its 
second  floor  to  the  court-room  proper.  In  the  rear 
of  this  larger  room  are  quarters  for  juries,  a  smaller 
court-room  for  minor  and  juvenile  cases,  a  library  of 
law  books,  and  retiring-rooms  for  the  Judge  and  for 
pleaders  at  the  bar. 

The  ground  floor  of  the  building,  cloven  from  end 
to  end  by  a  tiled  corridor,  is  honeycombed  with 
offices  leading  off  from  this  divisive  hall,  each  office 
fronted  with  a  frosted  glass  door,  each  door  bearing 
appropriate  sign  of  its  function  and  occupancy. 
Rooms  are  allotted  to  the  Prothonotary,  to  the  Or- 
phans Court,  to  the  Court  of  Oyer  and  Terminer,  to 
the  County  Commissioners,  the  County  Treasurer 
and  the  Sheriff. 

A  last  door,  opening  from  the  hall  about  midway 
along  its  length,  lettered  "Court's  Chambers,"  ad- 
mitted the  duly  accredited  visitor  to  a  rich  red  rug 
laid  within  four  high  walls  solidly  lined  with  law 
books.  On  one  side  the  wall  of  books  is  pilnctured 
by  the  door  of  admittance.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room  two  tall  and  wide  windows  look  out  upon 
the  elm-dotted  square,  with  the  street  beyond.  At 
one  end  the  books  are  parted  about  a  marble  fire- 
place,  and  at  the  other  end  about  the  door  to  the 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  251 

vaulted  filing-room  adjoining.  The  room  is  finished 
in  walnut,  and  littered  with  a  thicket  of  chairs  and 
small  tables  in  the  same  sombre  wood.  Out  of  this 
jungle  of  furniture  rise  two  painted  iron  columns,  of 
Corinthian  persuasion,  to  support  a  portion  of  the 
general  court-room  above. 

In  this  work-room  sat  Judge  Penning  one  morning 
about  the  middle  of  February,  seated  behind  a  broad 
and  flat  walnut  desk  stationed  beside  one  of  the  tall 
windows,  busily  scratching  away  at  a  court  opinion. 
The  day  was  a  masterpiece  of  the  dismal,  a  triumph 
of  what  the  hysterical  season  of  the  year  can  ac- 
complish with  the  atmoshperic  possibilities  of  the 
valley  about  Rossacre.  Such  weather  must  make 
many  murderers,  and  other  work  for  the  Courts. 

In  lieu  of  air  a  thick  fog  filled  the  square,  with  a 
thin  and  fine  and  chill  rain  sifting  through  it  mourn- 
fully. From  time  to  time  the  naked  trees  shivered 
at  some  slight  stir  of  air,  as  if  shuddering  at  the  icy 
drops  of  water  that  trickled  down  their  glistening 
black  twigs  and  branches.  In  the  street  beyond  the 
square  the  deserted  sidewalks  tinkled  with  raindrops  — 
the  myriad  pattering  feet  of  the  fog.  And  for  once  — 
for  the  first  time  Penning  could  remember  since  his 
assumption  of  the  Judgeship  —  Court's  Chambers  so 
far  that  morning  had  been  crowded  with  nothing  but 
the  thoughts  of  its  official  tenant.  He  was  eJone,  he 
was  busy,  he  was  happy. 

Across  and  across  the  pages  of  legal  cap  flew  his 
pen.  The  rapid  working  of  his  mind  brought  a  flood 
of  red  blood  to  his  cheek.  At  one  moment  he  would 
rush  to  one  of  the  shelves  and  reach  down  some 
volume  of  reports,  some  work  of  an  authority;  or 
sometimes  he  rose  and  stood  by  the  window,  waiting 


252  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

for  a  phrase  to  shape  itself  just  to  his  liking;  or 
leaning  back  in  his  swivel  chair  between  paragraphs 
he  would  call  out  and  chaff  decrepit  old  Sebastian 
Drumgoogle,  court  crier  and  Judge's  factotum. 

Eleven  struck  on  the  musically  toned  bell  in  the 
tower  above  the  building,  and  chimed  from  the  clock 
on  the  mantel;  and  still  the  toiler  wrote  on,  as  if 
his  energy  ignored  all  limits  and  as  if  clocks  were  out- 
lawed from  his  world.  Noiselessly  old  Drumgoogle 
moved  about  with  his  duster,  and  drew  from  the 
toiling  Judge  as  little  attention  as  either  of  the 
Corinthian  columns.  A  lone,  lorn,  surviving,  and  still 
enterprising  fly  buzzed  against  the  pane.  The  faint 
drip  of  the  rain  outside  played  a  soft  accompaniment 
to  the  scratch  of  the  judicial  pen.  Nothing  but  the 
silence  of  a  winter  night  in  the  country  could  match 
this  stillness  —  so  complete  that  the  knock  on  the 
door,  which  then  broke  the  period,  might  have  been, 
from  the  shock  it  disseminated,  the  report  of  a  can- 
non. The  very  chairs  danced,  and  the  windows 
rattled,  at  the  sound. 

Without  looking  up  from  his  work.  Penning  sig- 
nalled to  Drumgoogle  to  admit  the  intruder,  whoever 
he  was,  whose  business  would  not  wait  even  upon  such 
discouraging  weather.  Still  one  more  sentence  called 
for  a  finishing  touch,  and  for  a  minute  longer  the 
Judge  wrote  on. 

When  he  did  consent  to  look  up,  it  was  in  aston- 
ishment at  the  rustle  of  skirts. 

Need  it  be  said  that  the  skirts  draped  the  comely 
person  of  Mrs.  Branstane.^ 

She  noisily  stamped  into  the  room  in  a  long  grey 
rain-coat  donned  against  this  masterpiece  of  Febru- 
ary weather,  with  tappings  of  her  feet  and  her  um- 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  253 

brella,  in  a  general  willingness  to  free  her  garments 
of  their  dampness. 

Passing  the  glass  door  of  a  bookcase,  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  obeyed  a  feminine  impulse  to  survey  herself 
in  the  uncertain  mirror  which  it  formed  against  the 
books  behind  it. 

Instantly  he  saw  who  it  was,  there  faded  from  Pen- 
ning's  face  all  trace  of  the  instinctive  and  friendly 
courtesy  which  the  prospect  of  an  interested  visitor 
sometimes  brought  him. 

For  all  the  twelve  or  more  years  that  he  had  seen 
Mrs.  Branstane  casually  —  he  had  never  stopped  to 
calculate  them  —  Penning  had  always  felt  an  un- 
governable, an  unexplainable  antipathy  toward  this 
person.  Of  late  days  the  feeling  —  or  was  it  an 
instinct?  —  had  grown  upon  him,  as  he  marked  how 
Mrs.  Branstane  became  less  the  housekeeper  than  the 
petted  and  spoiled  companion  of  the  Gayland  ladies. 
Always,  now,  Mrs.  Branstrane  seemed  to  be  forcing  him 
to  resent  some  subtle  familiarity.  And  he  took  it  upon 
him  to  resent  even  the  familiarities  that  the  Gayland 
ladies  themselves  seemed  ready  to  indulge  in  the  woman. 

"Busy,  Judge.^"    she  asked. 

And  he  resented  even  the  touch  of  familiarity  sug- 
gested in  the  brevity  of  her  greeting.  At  the  very 
sound  of  her  voice  Penning  was  an  instant  pillar  of 
starch. 

"Not  so  busy,  madam,  but  I  can  attend  to  any 
business  you  may  have  with  me."  And  for  all  his 
blandness  he  could  not  prevent  the  word  "business" 
from  taking  on  a  slight  emphasis. 

There  seemed  to  him,  too,  a  touch  of  irony  in  the 
somewhat  noticeable  sweetness  of  Mrs.  Branstrane's 
drawl  of  "Busy,  Judge.^" 


254  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

The  irony  was  certainly  there.  High  time,  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  decided,  that  this  fine  gentleman  should 
be  set  right  about  her.  She  smiled  to  see  him  hoist 
before  her  his  eternal  guard  of  suavity.  She  was 
glad  for  it.  He  was  providing  her  with  her  needed 
stimulant  of  irritation.  The  anger  she  had  carefully 
licked  up  in  herself  in  setting  out  to  see  him,  and  the 
inspiration  that  anger  always  gave  her,  were  not, 
then,  to  ooze  away  in  any  soft  and  defeating  mush 
of  understanding  and  good-fellowship.  In  anger  Mrs. 
Branstane  was  always  in  her  element  and  on  familiar 
ground. 

She  spoke  in  the  drawl  that  always  resulted  when- 
ever she  wished  to  be  disagreeable,  and  felt  it  safe  to 
be  so. 

"  Well,  now,  if  you  really  are  at  leisure,  I  do  have 
something  I  'd  like  very  much  to  see  you  about  — 
to  have  your  opinion." 

The  tone,  and  her  peculiar  smile,  drew  a  sharp 
glance  of  inquiry  from  Penning.  "Yes  —  yes,"  he 
said.  "Well,  madam,  let  us  come  to  it  at  once,  if 
you  don't  mind.^^" 

Suave  he  was,  though  the  suavity  came  hard. 

For  answer  Mrs.  Branstane  looked  dubiously, 
loftily,  at  Drumgoogle. 

"You  may  speak  before  him  in  perfect  assurance, 
Mrs.  —  ah  —  Mrs.  Branstane." 

"But  I  should  rawther  —  ?" 

"Mr.  Drumgoogle,  in  the  next  room,  if  you  please." 

Waiting  for  the  rheumatic  old  fellow  to  close  the 
door  to  the  vaulted  room,  Mrs.  Branstane  permitted 
herself  to  gravitate  languidly  into  the  nearest  chair 
bearing  arms.  Her  opened  newmarket  fell  apart, 
and  disclosed  a  bit  of  ankle  as  she  crossed  one  leg 


THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT  255 

over  the  other  with  a  neatly  shod  foot  swaying 
placidly.  On  observing  a  fleck  of  partly  dried  mud 
upon  her  shoe,  she  coolly  and  leisurely  leaned  forward 
and  flicked  it  off  with  a  corner  of  her  coat.  Then, 
languidly  again,  her  back  sought  the  back  of  the  chair, 
her  arms  found  its  arms,  one  hand  slowly  waving  the 
handle  of  her  umbrella,  pivoted  on  the  floor,  and  the 
one  swinging  foot  now  curtaining  and  now  exposing 
the  other  well-turned  ankle. 

Plainly  Mrs.  Branstane  considered  herself  already 
proficient  in  the  accepted  Rossacre  drawing-room 
manner. 

Judge  Penning  came  round  from  behind  his  desk, 
with  the  ofi'ering,  "Now,  Mrs.  Branstane,  what  is  it, 
please?" 

Wearily  he  hoisted  the  tail  of  his  coat,  folded  his 
arms,  and  half  sat,  half  leaned,  upon  his  desk,  in  a 
slight  excess  of  polite  expectancy,  to  imply  that  the 
interview  was  to  be  brief.  "What  the  devil  can  she 
want  now!"  he  groaned  to  himself.  This  was  the 
third  time  she  had  intruded  with  her  trivial  "busi- 
ness." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Branstane  simply  sat  and  smiled. 

Not  a  bad  figure  did  she  cut,  either,  with  her 
smoothly  rounded  throat  and  shoulders,  undisguised 
by  the  cut  of  her  garment,  with  her  light  bronze- 
coloured  hair,  with  her  plump  curves  and  the  vigour 
and  strength  of  her  movements. 

But  Mrs.  Branstane's  face  also  had  the  foundation  of 
a  jaw,  when  you  observed  it.  She  never  opened  her 
lips  widely  when  she  talked,  and  there  was  that  in 
her  dark-brown  eye,  in  the  strong  and  even  tone  of  her 
voice  —  something  written  all  over  her  —  which  men 
never  behold  in  a  woman  without  sensations  of  panic. 


256  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Branstane's  eyes  were  two 
carbuncles,  set  in  a  nagging  smile. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Penning  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Judge 
Penning,"  she  drawled.  "Yes,  let  us  come  to  business 
at  once.     Probably  you  know  what  it  is?" 

Evidently  Mrs.  Branstane  wished  to  point  her 
"business"  with  humour. 

Penning  undertook  to  annihilate  this  turn  toward 
wit.     He  was  all  frost,  all  dignity,  all  Penning. 

"Your  business,  madam?  I  don't  believe  I  can 
grasp  it  in  advance."  He  even  lost  control  of  his 
patience  and  added,  "It  seems  to  be  a  trifle  recon- 
dite." Then,  seeing  that  he  had  committed  himself, 
he  said  on,  "I  really  must  ask  you  to  be  prompt  and 
definite  —  and  brief.  I  'm  overwhelmed  with  work 
this  morning." 

Mrs.  Branstane  continued  to  smile. 

"Certainly,  certainly,  Mr.  Penning  —  Judge  Pen- 
ning, pardon  me!  Yes,  yes;  let  us  lose  no  time. 
Let 's  go  straight  to  business,  certainly.  This  time 
I  shan't  annoy  you  with  matters  of  sugar  and  tea, 
Mr.  Penning.  This  time  it  is  something  rather 
difi'erent,"  she  loftily  drawled.  "Excuse  me,  Mr. 
Penning,  but  you  were,  I  suppose,  one  of  the  intimates 
of  Judge  Gayland,  were  you  not?" 

Light  was  breaking  over  Penning.  And  to  save 
time  with  the  exasperating  woman,  he  made  straight 
for  the  point  of  what  she  appeared  to  be  struggling 
to  say.  "Something  about  the  Judge's  personal  af- 
fairs this  time?     What  is  it,  please?" 

The  Judge  even  lighted  up,  and  leaned  forward 
ever  so  little,  in  a  reviving  interest. 

"Yes.  Certainly,  Mr.  Penning,  certainly.  Yes. 
It  is  about  Judge  Gayland."    Mrs.  Branstane  laughed 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  257 

her  quiet  laugh.  "I  could  bring  it  only  to  you,  of 
course  —  you  being  —  well,  the  first  of  his  friends, 
I  may  say?  You  were  really  the  Judge's  most 
intimate  friend,  I  presume?" 

"Well,  well,  madam!"  Penning  leaned  back,  to 
mark  the  extent  of  his  patience.  "Judge  Gay  land 
was  one  of  my  most  honoured  friends,  perhaps.  I 
don't  say  I  was  his  most  intimate  friend.  I 
couldn't  go  so  far.  Have  you  some  doubt  about 
my  trustworthiness?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Penning  —  Judge  Penning! 
I  'm  perfectly  sure  of  you!" 

This  was  certain  to  have  happened,  in  time,  this 
repayment  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Branstane  for  all  the 
deposits  of  wrath  he  had  been  planting  in  her  reten- 
tive memory  in  all  "these  years."  The  repayment 
was  only  coming  due. 

Mrs.  Branstane  continued  with  her  knowing  smile. 
Her  campaign  of  irritation  was  going  admirably. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was  interrupting 
his  work,  that  he  was  nettled  by  her  sheer  physical 
presence,  nettled  by  her  impudence,  and  by  the 
advantage  she  was  taking  of  his  courtesy.  And  she 
was  smiling  at  her  success  with  this  new  strong  man. 

She  was  in  the  humour  against  which  a  fine  nature 
would  dash  itself  like  a  bottle  against  a  wall. 

Hence  she  started  on  again,  with  her  "rawthers," 
until  Penning  once  more  tried  to  cut  to  the  core  of 
the  fine  lady's  delighted  chatter. 

"Really,  really!"  he  said.  "You  mean,  do  you, 
that  you  've  discovered  some  serious,  some  unex- 
pected financial  shortage?     Is  that  it?" 

"Why,  exactly,  Mr.  Penning,  exactly!  A  shortage 
indeed  —  that  has  run  on  for  a  long  time.     For  some 


258  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

time,  yes  —  something  that  has  given  me  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  to  conceal  from  the  family." 

At  the  grim  truth  in  her  statement  Mrs.  Branstane 
laughed  lightly  again.  And  at  Penning's  instant 
response  now  to  any  touch  she  chose  to  lay  on,  she 
laughed  further;  he  was  so  quickly,  so  deeply  per- 
turbed at  her  news. 

"That  is  to  say,  Judge  Penning,"  Mrs.  Branstane 
went  on  loftily,  "I  have  sought  you  again  —  for 
your  help  —  from  your  superior  knowledge  of  Judge 
Gayland's  affairs." 

"Yes  —  yes.     Explain,  if  you  please." 

"Certainly!  Things  have  come  to  such  a  pass 
that  for  upwards  of  two  weeks  now,  I  should  say,  I 
have  been  running  that  household  —  that  whole 
house,  mind  you  —  on  my  own  money.  On  my  own 
savings." 

Naturally,  at  that.  Judge  Penning's  eyes  went 
wide  open. 

"Why,  why!"  he  stammered.  "Can  it  be  possi- 
ble!" He  studied  the  floor,  and  rubbed  it  with  his 
foot,  for  a  moment.  "You  —  you  say  this  discrepancy 
has  been  running  on  for  some  time?  I  can't  under- 
stand it.  I  never  knew  —  In  short,  this  is  astound- 
ing. I  thought  Judge  Gayland  was  a  very  rich  man. 
Of  course  I  have  no  intimate  knowledge  of  the  state 
of  his  affairs.  But  not  long  ago  Mrs.  Gayland  herself 
assured  me  — " 

"Mrs.  Gayland  herself  has  been  blind  to  it  all  along. 
And  so  has  Annabel." 

Penning  frowned  at  the  studied  omission  of  the 
"Miss." 

"I  must  say,"  Mrs.  Branstane  was  blandly  run- 
ning on,  "they  have  both  been  —  well,  extravagant. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  259 

Needlessly  extravagant.  All  their  lives.  And  do 
what  I  could,  I  could  never  make  them  see  that  it 
was  dangerous  and  wrong." 

Again  Mrs.   Branstane  laughed  lightly. 

"Even  now,"  she  ran  on,  "Mrs.  Gayland  won't 
see  it.  She  insists  that  things  must  be  all  right.  I 
can't  convince  her  that — " 

"But  hadn't  Judge  Gayland  ample  funds  in  the 
bank?  Haven't  his  holdings  realised  a  generous 
income. f^" 

"They  haven't  realised  anything."  Deliberately 
Mrs.  Branstane  chose  to  misapply  the  word.  "Crazed 
as  they  are  with  grief  and  worry,  how  can  they 
realise  where  they  stand!" 

"Yes  —  yes.     I   suppose — " 

"They've  left  everything  to  me.  And  I  myself 
have  more  knowledge  than  I  care  for  about  Judge 
Gayland's  affairs!  It  's  an  enormous  expense,  so  it 
is  —  running  that  great  house.  Something  I  can't 
be  expected  to  bear  for  ever  —  on  my  own  savings. 
You  can  see  for  yourself  how  absurd  it  is." 

"Yes  —  yes."  Penning  was  smiling  at  the  nig- 
gardly spirit  in  the  woman. 

But  Mrs.  Branstane  too  was  smiling.  Just  the 
impressions  that  she  meant  him  to  gather,  Penning 
duly  gathered.  "Great  heavens!"  she  was  making 
him  think.  "What  selfishness!  So  that's  her  'busi- 
ness'! For  years  she  has  been  in  the  employ  of  the 
Gaylands'  —  at  a  good  round  wage,  I  don't  doubt. 
Yet  merely  while  their  affairs  are  being  adjusted  she 
begrudges  them  the  loan  of  a  little  financial  help! 
Her  precious  savings!" 

After  a  moment  of  shrewd  and  formidable  study 
of  her,  as  he  thought,  Penning  said  to  her  sharply. 


260  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Mrs.  Branstane,  never  fear  for  your  money.  If 
it  is  necessary  I  shall  repay  you  that  myself.  Mean- 
while, if  you  want  me  to  speak  to  the  family,  if  you 
want  me  to  open  their  eyes  to  this  —  this  flagrant 
abuse  of  your  generosity  — " 

"Oh,  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mr.  Penning,  nothing  of 
the  kind!"  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed  softly,  indul- 
gently. "I  see  you  fancy  that  I  grudge  the  Gaylands 
this  little  help  in  time  of  need.  But  that 's  nothing. 
The  point  is,  this  need  is  likely  to  continue  —  I  may 
say  indefinitely.  That 's  what  I  'm  thinking  of. 
That  is  why  I  am  here  this  morning  —  to  learn  from 
you  what  is  best  to  be  done.  You  as  an  authority 
on  Judge  Gayland's  affairs.  I  've  put  off  the  visit 
long  enough  as  it  is.  That  house  is  an  enormous 
expense,  as  I  have  said." 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  paused,  in  order  to  launch 
with  the  fullest  effect  the  last  of  her  bolts. 

"It  strikes  me,  Mr.  Penning,"  she  said  slowly  and 
incisively,  "it  strikes  me  that  three  thousand  dollars 
was  a  rather  small  sum  for  Judge  Gayland  to  leave 
in  the  bank.  Bather  a  small  amount  for  Judge 
Gayland,  don't  you  think?" 

"Three  thousand — " 

"Yet  it  was  all  the  money  Mrs.  Gayland  could 
count  upon.  Of  course  something  could  be  realised 
by  the  sale  of  the  remaining  property  —  the  house, 
and  so  on.  But  I  thought  that  you,  perhaps,  with 
your  greater  familiarity  with  Judge  Gayland's  affairs, 
might  know  —  ?" 

"Three  thousand  dollars,  only!"  Penning  repeated. 
"Absurd.  Why,  I  've  heard  that  Judge  Gayland 
carried  a  cash  deposit  of  easily  $25,000  up  to  the 
day  of  his  illness.     What  of  that?     Only  a  fortnight 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  261 

ago  Mrs.  Gayland  assured  me  that  she  could  be 
comfortable  on  the  cash  that  was  readily  available." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Penning!"    Mrs.  Branstane  burst  in. 

The  conversation  was  displaying  an  irritating 
tendency  to  fasten  itself  to  facts;  and  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane was  there  to  exercise  her  emotions. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Penning!"  she  said.  "Well,  I  can 
tell  you  this  much,  that  Mrs.  Gayland  would  not  be 
up  there  in  that  house,  crying  her  eyes  out,  if  that 
much  cold  cash  had  come  into  her  possession!  And 
to  my  positive  knowledge  Judge  Gayland  was  obliged 
to  scale  down  his  style  of  life,  and  even  to  borrow 
money,  a  whole  year  before  his  illness.  Three  thou- 
sand dollars  was  all  /  knew  he  had.  And  I  'm  rather 
surprised  that  he  had  that  much.  The  money  he 
did  leave  was  eat  up  fast  enough  in  paying  his  worst 
election  debts.  What  else  he  had,  I  fancy,  went  to 
smash,  along  with  everything  else,  in  the  —  well," 
she  finished  in  a  tone  of  light  sarcasm,  "in  the  general 
slump.     But  I  thought  of  course  that  you  — " 

Mrs.  Branstane  ended  with  the  cunning  appear- 
ance of  having  blurted  more  than  she  meant  to 
divulge.  She  loved  this  play  with  allusion  and 
inference.  And  here,  in  Penning,  she  found  just 
the  organ  to  play  upon. 

"Yes  —  yes."  Dutifully  Penning  caught  all  Mrs. 
Branstane's  allusions  and  subtleties. 

And  Mrs.  Branstane  only  laughed  outright  as  he 
drilled  her  with  his  gaze. 

"You  yourself  seem,  Mrs.  —  ah  —  Mrs.  Branstane," 
Penning  began  speaking  in  the  rasping  staccato  of 
the  cross-examiner,  "you  yourself  seem  to  have  a 
surprising  knowledge  of  Judge  Gayland's  affairs." 
All  his  ancient  instinctive  suspicion  of  Mrs.  Branstane 


262  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

was  alert  in  him  again.  "In  fact,"  he  proceeded, 
"you  seem  tf)  know  more  about  his  personal  affairs 
than  I  do  —  or  even  Mrs.   Gayland  herself." 

Now  at  last  Penning  thought  he  had  penetrated 
this  meddling  fool,  and  the  lawyer  in  him  proposed 
to  have  it  out  with  her.  He  remembered  Gayland's 
unaccountable  latter-day  poverty  —  with  nothing  much 
to  show  as  having  himself  run  altogether  through  his 
considerable  fortune.  Now  the  naive  disclosures  — 
disclosures  more  of  herself  than  of  Gayland  —  crowded 
in  upon  Penning.  He  groped  for  the  connection. 
Who  had  the  money? 

"You  have  been  entrusted  with  the  management 
of  Judge  Gayland's  household  for  some  little  time, 
Mrs.  —  Mrs.  Branstane.^^"  he  said.  "As  long  as  I 
have  been  privileged  to  visit  the  house,  at  least,  I 
have  seen  you  there.    You  must  have  served  them  — " 

That  word  "service"  again!  "I  'served'  them 
twelve  years,  if  that  is  what  you  mean!  And  in  all 
that  time  — " 

"Yes  —  yes.  You  concerned  yourself  wholly  with 
the  management  of  the  household  affairs,  I  take  it?" 

"Mrs.  Gayland—" 

" Did  you?" 

"Mrs.  Gayland—" 

"I  said,  did  you  concern  yourself  solely  with  Judge 
Gayland's  household  affairs?" 

All  this  Mrs.  Branstane  relished  as  the  breath  of 
life.  She  liked,  she  wanted,  she  required,  to  be  stung 
to  fury.     Only  then  was  she  potent  and  truly  herself. 

"Mrs.  Gayland  was  not  content  merely  to  have  me 
run  the  house!"  Mrs.  Branstane  shot  out  the  words 
in  a  volley,  in  order  to  get  them  spoken  before  the 
possibility    of    interruption.       "You    know    yourself 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  263 

what  a  showy  charity  business  she  drove.  You  know 
how  many  clubs  and  societies  she  tried  to  boss.  Well, 
sir,  she  saddled  every  bit  of  that  onto  me.  She 
wasn't  capable  of  it  herself.  Housekeeper?  I  was  that 
woman's  secretary,  her  office-boy  —  everything.  Oh,  I 
tell  you  I  earned  what  little  they  stinted  on  me!" 

"Ye-es.  I  didn't  ask  you  what  you  were  to  Mrs. 
Gayland.  But  since  you  've  brought  up  Mrs.  Gay- 
land,  I  'd  like  to  know  how  it  is  —  the  thing  that  I 
can't  penetrate  in  this  'business'  of  yours,  Mrs. 
Branstane  —  is  how  Mrs.  Gayland,  whom  you  seem 
to  have  taken  in  —  ah  —  who  seems  to  have  com- 
mitted so  many  matters  to  you,  should  be  ignorant 
of  such  of  Judge  Gayland's  affairs  as  you  appear  to 
have  known,  intimately,  for  a  long  time.  How  did 
you  know  what  Mrs.  Gayland  never  knew  at  all.**" 

Poor  Penning  felt  some  little  satisfaction  at  having 
thus  traced  Mrs.  Branstane  through  the  thicket  of  her 
own  wiles  —  at  having  caught  her  thus,  in  the  very  ruck 
of  them.  Of  her  own  accord  the  fool  had  put  herself 
into  his  hands.  Now  to  intimidate  the  blundering, 
self-condemned  knave,  and  make  short  shrift  of  her! 

"Judge  Gayland  I  knew  to  be  a  man  of  very 
generous  character,  Mrs.  Johnson  —  Mrs.  Branstane. 
Everybody  knew  him  to  be  such.  He  was  generous, 
and  perhaps  too  easy-going.  Now,  I  trust  you  will 
pardon  me,  madam;  but  tell  me  if  Judge  Gayland 
himself  was  aware  of  your  knowledge  of  his  private 
affairs?" 

Even  as  he  said  that  Penning  regretted  his  rash 
words.  To  insult  the  woman  was  far  from  his  desire, 
but  his  inveterate  suspicions  had  uttered  themselves 
in  spite  of  him. 

In  any  event  his  regret  came  too  late.     Mrs.  Bran- 


264  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

stane  was  there  purposely  to  feed  her  lust  of  combat, 
and  Penning  was  simply  serving  her  in  the  capacity 
of  the  most  convenient  antagonist. 

Mrs.  Branstane  rose  to  her  feet.  Now  at  last  the 
real  play  was  begun. 

"You  poor  fool!  Poor  idiot!"  she  snapped.  "This 
is  just  the  sort  of  thing  I  might  expect  from  your  past 
elegant  treatment  of  me!  You  're  no  gentleman,  for 
all  your  grand  airs  and  your  fine  reputation.  You 
ain't  clever  —  for  all  you  think  you  are.  I  come  here 
and  tell  you  that  something  has  gone  wrong  in  the 
Gayland  house,  and  without  waiting  to  find  out  the 
truth,  you  are  ready  to  have  me  arrested.  You 
think  I  've  been  stealing,  do  you?  Smart  lawyer 
you  are,  to  insult  you  're  own  best  witness!  But  I  '11 
be  obliging,  anyway.  I  '11  tell  you  all  you  want  to 
know  —  and  more  too.  How  very  intimate  you  must 
have  been  with  Judge  Gayland!" 

Mrs.  Branstane's  anger  suddenly  dissolved  into 
ironic  merriment.  She  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed,  laughed  her  fill,  at  Penning's  innocent  social 
cant  about  the  "generous"  Judge  Gayland. 

"Not  to  have  known  Gayland  for  what  he  was!" 
she  laughed.  "As  I  did  —  I,  a  woman!  0-oh,  you 
knew  Judge  Gayland  for  a  generous,  grand  character, 
did  you,  Mr.  Penning!"  There  Mrs.  Branstane  play- 
fully poked  her  umbrella  toward  the  President  Judge. 
"And  I  suppose  you  fancied  Mrs.  Gayland  was  a 
'grand'  character,  too.^^" 

Suddenly,  abruptly,  she  grew  serious.  The  sting 
in  Penning's  cross-examination  had  struck  home. 

"So  there  is  a  little  something  in  my  'business' 
that  your  brilliant  intellect  can't  'penetrate,'  is  there? 
Well,  sir,  here  it  is.     I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  265 

The  drawl  had  vanished,  and  with  it  the  fine  lady 
accent.  Squarely  and  firmly  Mrs.  Branstane  rose 
and  stood  before  her  chair,  her  umbrella  gripped  in 
one  hand,  the  other  tightly  clenched  at  her  side,  — 
the  instinctive  act  of  born  speakers,  and  of  many 
bores.  And  to  make  sure  of  being  heard  before  she 
could  be  interrupted,  she  fairly  sputtered  her  words. 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Penning;  you  were  right  about  it. 
Indeed  Mrs.  Gayland  was  'taken  in.'  Yes,  sir;  Judge 
Gayland  was  aware  of  'my  knowledge  of  his  private 
affairs '  —  for  twelve  long  years,  for  all  his  life,  he 
was  'aware'  of  it.  Leave  it  to  me  to  inform  you 
how  Mrs.  Gayland  was  taken  in,  as  you  say.  And 
who  did  it.  /  '11  tell  you,  Mr.  Penning,  what  financial 
trouble  it  was  that  I  was  so  hard  put  to  conceal. 
/  '11  teU  you  why  I  was  nothing  but  that  woman's 
servant.  /  can  enlighten  you  about  Judge  Gayland's 
affairs,  and  how  I  came  to  know  them!" 

Penning  had  risen  from  his  half  sitting  posture  on 
the  edge  of  his  desk,  and  was  candidly  laughing  at 
this  melodrama.  His  impulse  was  to  thump  over  to 
the  door  and  swing  it  wide  for  her  instant  exit.  "No- 
body cares  for  your  tale-bearing!"  the  contemptuous 
comment  escaped  him. 

Escaped  him,  because  in  another  moment  he  would 
have  recalled  the  words  if  he  could.  There  had  re- 
turned to  his  presence  something  other  than  the 
spurious  fine  lady  of  the  minute  before. 

Mrs.  Branstane  drew  herself  up  more  rigidly  than 
ever.  With  her  head  thrown  back  she  looked  him 
bravely  in  the  eye. 

"Mr.  Penning,"  she  said,  slowly  and  quietly.  And 
her  figure  and  her  manner  were  not  without  their 
touch  of  dignity.    "What  I  have  come  here  to  tell  you 


266  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

will  hurt  my  pride  to  tell.  I  may  have  to  say  things 
about  your  'generous'  friend  that  will  make  you  hate 
me.  I  may  have  to  take  away  from  you  some  of 
your  pleasant  ideas  about  him.  You  may  shout  as 
you  please."  Mrs.  Branstane's  lip  curled  lightly. 
"But  I  am  here  in  the  interests  of  two  persons  that 
I  believe  concern  you  —  and  that  I  am  supposed  to 
respect!"  the  sarcasm  came  irresistibly  to  her.  "I 
am  here  on  'business.'  Judge  Gayland's  affairs  have 
got  to  be  straightened  out  at  last.  And  I  see  nobody 
but  you  and  me  to  do  it." 

She  was  speaking  very  well.  She  felt  herself  im- 
proving. Mrs.  Branstane  was  herself  thrilled  to  hear 
Mrs.   Branstane   discourse  in  this  fashion. 

Penning,  unaware  that  all  this  was  the  epitome  of 
twelve  or  more  years  of  ceaseless  and  loving  rehearsal, 
was  startled.  Even  rebuked.  It  might  well  be  that 
he  had  done  the  woman  injustice,  and  he  undertook 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  hasty  conclusions. 

Greedily  Mrs.  Branstane  read  all  this  in  his  face, 
greedily  drank  it  in,  along  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
intoxication  she  was  drawing  from  this  novel  and 
delightful  experience. 

She  laughed  her  low  and  rather  musical  laugh  — 
one  of  her  most  effective  features.  A  confidential 
laugh.  At  times  insinuating.  Full  of  subtle  knowl- 
edge. "Mr.  Penning,"  she  was  saying,  with  punctu- 
ations of  this  laughter,  "if  you  were  so  very  intimate 
with  Judge  Gayland,  did  he  ever  tell  you  much  about 
his  boyhood.^  Where  he  came  from?  What  he  was, 
back  there  in  Hoytville?  Ever  hear  of  Hoytville?" 
More  laughter.  "I  hardly  think  you've  heard  of 
Hoytville!  You  weren't  that  intimate  with  the 
Judge.     No  one  was.     Not  that  it   need   kill   anyone 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  267 

to  come  from  Hoytville.  I  came  from  there  myself. 
That 's  why  I  always  got  behind  something  and 
laughed  when  the  Judge  began  to  spout  about  his 
'family,'  his  'lineage'!  But  Hoytville-in-the-Back- 
woods  is  where  he  came  from,  all  the  same."  Mrs. 
Branstane  was  speaking  a  little  louder.  The  laughter 
had  ceased.  Her  temper  was  rising,  on  the  tide  of 
these  reminiscences.  "Nothing  but  a  clodhopper, 
that's  what  he  was!  Son  of  a  lazy  drunkard!"  — 
louder  still.  At  the  next  words  Mrs.  Branstane's 
control  gave  way  completely  and  she  almost  shouted. 
"Got  to  be  Judge,  the  fool,  the  strutting  peacock. 
And  he  never  deserved  it  —  never !  When  I  was 
nothing  but  his  housekeeper,  I  that  made  him!" 

Wider  and  wider  Penning's  eyes  had  opened  in 
astonishment.  As  fast  as  he  got  the  woman  rated 
and  adjudged,  she  upset  his  estimate.  So,  after  all, 
malice  was  the  mainspring,  the  animus  of  this  Hagar's 
wrath. 

"God  hears  me  say  it!"  she  was  declaiming. 
"That  man  never  should  have  been  what  he  was, 
after  what  he  did!" 

Impetuously  Penning  whisked  about,  walked  to  the 
window  beside  his  desk,  and  stood  looking  out  of  it, 
his  hands  behind  him  expressing  their  impatience, 
against  the  tail  of  his  coat.  A  woman,  not  to  be 
forcibly  ejected,  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  wait 
for  the  mud  bath  to  end. 

Yet  immediately  again  Mrs.  Branstane  brought 
him  to  sudden  respect  of  her. 

"Those  whom  Judge  Gayland  will  have  hurt  the 
most,  Mr.  Penning,"  she  said,  slowly,  quietly  again, 
and  as  incisively  as  before,  certain  now  of  her  effect, 
and  anxious  that  none  of  it  should  be  missed,  "those 


268  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

whom  he  will  have  hurt  the  most  —  are  —  the  two 
other  members  of  his  family." 

Penning  faced  about,  to  meet  what  might  be  com- 
ing next.  In  spite  of  him,  then,  she  was  determined 
to  rattle  the  Gayland  skeleton.  And  he  put  himself 
in  what  attitude  he  could  to  hear  the  unwelcome 
truth. 


CHAPTER  III 

THERE  Mrs.  Branstane  began  in  real  earnest. 
At  the  beginning.  And  truly  astonishing  was 
her  eloquence  as  she  recited  her  little  Inferno 
—  in  which  she  had  herself  now  so  painstakingly 
drilled.  She  knew  how  to  score  "points"  with  it 
now.  She  knew  its  melting  moments.  The  places 
for  dramatic  pause. 

And  before  she  had  finished,  of  course,  it  was 
stretched  outrageously. 

"There  in  Hoytville,  Mr.  Penning,  Judge  Gayland 
and  I  were  children  together,"  Penning  heard  her 
saying,  while  he  industriously  creased  the  rug  with 
his  toe  and  endured  it.  "Nothing  remarkable  about 
that,  you  say  —  everybody  in  Rossacre  knows  that 
already.  Yes!  But  we  were  like  brother  and  sister. 
It  doesn't  know  that.  Going  to  school  together. 
Eating  apples  and  gingerbread  out  of  the  same  basket. 
My  basket,  too!  Oh,  it  was  always  my-y  basket! 
Why,  my  father  picked  him  up  out  of  the  very 
gutter.  Took  him  to  live  with  us.  Fed  him,  when  he 
would  have  starved.  His  mother  was  dead  and  his 
father  a  drunken  lout.  And  yet  after  that,  after  all 
my  father  did  for  him,  and  my  mother  did  for  him, 
and  /  did  for  him  —  made  him" — this  was  shouted 
now  —  ''made  him  —  that  man  could  take  advantage 
of  my  misfortunes  and  let  me  pass  for  nothing  but  a 
housekeeper!  .  .  .  And  there 's  more,  Mr.  Penning, 
there's  more  —  oh,  you  bet  there's  more!" 


270  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  now  fairly  smacking  her  lips 
over  her  narrative,  in  the  ineffable  joys  of  self-pity. 
Meltingly  and  long  she  strung  it  out,  and  halted  now 
and  again  for  the  parenthesis :  — 

"That 's  what  I  did  for  him  —  that 's  what!  And 
more,  too!"  Then  the  torrent  of  recollection  poured 
on. 

She  told  of  Gayland's  turning  out  a  likely  boy. 
She  told  of  her  love  for  him,  even  as  a  baby,  and  of 
how  it  had  been  returned,  and  encouraged  —  very 
decidedly  encouraged. 

"But  oh,  he  couldn't  kiss  me  —  you  know  —  for 
nothing!"    she  pronounced. 

Then  his  being  dismissed  from  their  house.  And 
his  flight  to  Philadelphia.  And  the  homesick  —  or 
was  it  the  boasting  —  letter  he  wrote  from  there. 

"Just  begging  me  to  come  to  him!  Just  begging 
me  to  come!"  Mrs.  Branstane  cried.  "0-oh,"  she 
stormed,  perhaps  with  some  reason,  and  certainly 
with  heat,  "your  elegant  Judge,  your  fine  gentleman, 
liked  me  then  —  fooled  me  then  —  when  I  was  young 
and  good-looking,  and  the  catch  of  Hoytville!" 

In  Philadelphia  he  did  find  work  for  her,  seeing 
that  he  wasn't  earning  enough  to  marry.  But  such 
work!  Took  advantage  of  the  impossibility  of  her 
returning  home,  and  got  her  a  place  in  a  family. 
And  she  had  to  take  the  situation,  or  starve. 

Then  his  second  flight.  And  for  ten  years  she  had 
been  left  to  shift  as  she  could,  with  never  a  word 
from  the  young  and  rising  Gayland. 

"Ten  years  of  that,  Mr.  Penning!  Ten  years  of 
it!  I  was  even  a  cook!  What  do  you  think  of  that, 
Mr.  Penning?" 

The    flush    on    Penning's    face    bespoke    the    rapid 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  271 

efforts  of  his  mind,  and  the  quality  of  his  ideas.  He 
rather  thought  he  was  relieved  to  find  the  Gayland 
skeleton  so  far  from  the  gruesome,  so  close  to  the 
conventional.  Rather  a  respectable  skeleton,  he 
thought  it. 

Now  and  then,  during  this  recital,  he  opened  his 
lips  to  interpose  —  to  protest,  or  even  sympathise  — 
for  she  impelled  him  to  both.  But  each  time  Mrs. 
Branstane  balked  him  with  a  redoubled  volubility. 
The  momentum  of  her  feelings  and  sufferings  would 
wait  for  no  philosophy. 

" Gayland P  Oh,  I  found  him  again!"  she  pointed 
to  Penning,  as  if  he  were  the  errant  and  the  captured 
Gayland. 

"The  fellow  was  too  hard  bent  on  getting  up  in 
the  world  for  me  to  miss  him  long!  The  wonder  is 
that  he  could  cover  up  his  tracks  as  long  as  he  did. 
Fool!  He  might  have  known  I  'd  find  him  again.  It 
was  only  necessary  to  see  his  name  in  a  newspaper  — 
'Our  prosperous  lawyer  and  model  citizen,  Ira  Gay- 
land,' —  and  all  the  rest  of  the  newspaper  slush. 
My  little  Ethel  went  into  an  orphanage.  I  —  /  went 
to  him!  .  .  .  Part  of  the  way  I  had  to  walk  —  a 
good  many  miles  of  it.  But,  Mr.  Penning,  I  found 
him  again!    I  found  him!" 

Little  by  little  Mrs.  Branstane  had  forced  for  her- 
self a  short  aisle  among  the  chairs  about  her,  in  the 
need  of  physical  as  well  as  vocal  expression.  Here, 
being  close  to  Penning,  she  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  said,  still  more  sententiously, 

"You  should  have  seen  the  gentleman's  face,  Mr. 
Penning,  when  I  strolled  into  his  office  here  in  Ros- 
sacre!  He  wasn't  glad  to  see  me,  do  you  understand? 
...  I  say,  Mr.  Penning,  do  you  understand?" 


272  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

Penning  thought  he  understood. 

Mrs.  Branstane  had  wished  to  enlist  his  sympathies 
for  herself,  and  she  had  inclined  him  unalterably  to 
the  cause  of  Gayland. 

"Ye-es,"  he  interposed  unexpectedly,  afire  with 
protest.  "I  think  I  understand!  But  if  he  didn't 
love  you,  why  did  you  pursue  — "  In  spite  of  him- 
self the  word  would  speak  itself. 

"Hound  him  down  all  his  life,  eh?  Why  don't 
you   speak   your   mind,    Mr.    Penning!" 

"Not  quite  that  way,  certainly.  But  when  he 
made  it  clear  — " 

"There  it  is!  That's  your  man's  way  of  looking 
at  everything.  But  didn't  I  love  him?  Didn't  he 
owe  me  something?" 

"But  still,  he  had—" 

"0-oh,  if  he  had  the  right  to  take  advantage  of 
me,  I  had  the  right  to  make  him  pay  the  penalty. 
Don't  I  know  what  was  wrong?  I  hadn't  the  fine 
ways.  I  couldn't  talk  the  elegant  nothings,  you  see." 
Mrs.  Branstane  minced  the  words  in  mockery.  "But 
I  could  have  learned  them.  I  have  learned  them.  I 
allowed  for  his  faults.  They  meant  nothing  to  me. 
And  when  he  tossed  me  aside — "  Mrs.  Branstane 
gestured  the  failure  of  her  words.  "He  —  he  didn't 
want  me." 

Mrs.  Branstane's  breath  caught  in  a  sob.  But  she 
quickly  rushed  on. 

"You  too,  Mr.  Penning,  you  treat  me  —  you  always 
have  treated  me  —  like  a  brute.  Just  as  Gayland 
was,  you  're  a  brute.  Why,  once  /  was  kind  and 
jolly!  It's  Gayland  made  me  as  I  am.  D' you 
suppose  that  doesn't  help  to  grind  me!  You  never 
think  that  I  've  got  a  life  to  live,  too  —  the  way  a 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  273 

life  ought  to  be  lived.  Whether  I  'm  happy  or  not 
means  nothing  to  you,  I  suppose.  It  never  did  to 
Gayland.     It  never  did  to  anybody." 

Penning's  eyes  roved  away  guiltily.  A  demand  on 
his  generosity  never  waited  for  response.  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  saw  the  success  of  her  stroke,  and  plied  it 
further. 

"So  you  see  now,  Mr.  Penning,  don't  you!  What  do 
you  suppose  I  felt  when  he  told  me  he  had  a  family 
now.*^  When  he  had  walked  into  his  fortune  on  the 
very  skin  of  my  hands!  Hadn't  I  made  him?  .  .  .  Oh, 
he  shook  like  a  leaf,  all  right,  when  I  walked  into 
that  office!  Afraid  of  what  I  was  going  to  ask.  And 
what  I  'd  do  if  he  refused." 

Mrs.  Branstane  paused  for  this  point  to  sink  home. 

"But  I  asked  for  nothing,  Mr.  Penning.  For  the 
sake  of  my  daughter,  that  he  had  sworn  on  his  knees 
to  provide  for,  I  swept  myself  aside.  I  made  one 
supreme  sacrifice,  for  the  other  mother." 

Another  pause,  for  that  point  also  to  be  duly 
attested. 

"But  never  again  could  I  trust  that  man.  He  had 
failed  me  too  often.  There  was  nothing  for  him  but 
to  take  me  in.  I  made  that  plain.  And  so  up  to 
his  fine  mansion  I  went,  and  there  beside  him  I  sat 
me  down,  to  watch  over  my  daughter's  interests." 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  paused  slightly  longer,  for 
Penning  to  respect  her  decision  of  character.  In- 
stead she  read  a  hot  condemnation  in  his  face. 

"Oh,  you  take  the  man's  part,  of  course.  You 
always  stick  by  each  other.  Well,  I  can  tell  you  this 
—  if  it  wasn't  sweet  for  Gayland,  it  was  no  sweeter 
for  me.  What  was  I,  all  the  while .^  Only  the  horse 
in  the  treadmill,  making  the  wheels  go  round.     And 


274  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

oh,  he  had  his  way  of  getting  back  at  me  —  with  his 
brilliant  reputation,  now,  and  his  Judging,  and  his 
elegant  dinners  and  dances,  and  trips  abroad,  flying 
high  in  the  world,  while  I  was  left  to  take  the  crumbs 
from  his  table  like  a  dog!  Oh,  he  rubbed  that  in,  as 
much  as  he  dared!  All  the  same,"  —  Mrs.  Branstane 
laughed  grimly — -"he  paid  for  that!" 

A  pause,  but  this  time  an  immediate  resumption. 

"I  stood  it  pretty  well  for  a  couple  of  years.  But 
when  he  began  to  make  love  to  me  again,  that 's 
where  I  began  putting  the  screws  to  him.  He  was 
always  making  eyes  at  the  cooks.  *But  that  was 
Avhere  my  blood  began  to  boil.  Before  that  I  used  to 
believe  it  was  just  hard  luck  that  I  wasn't  about 
when  he  came  to  the  marrying  age.  That 's  what 
he  told  me.  But  there  I  got  to  know  him  as  he  was. 
And  that 's  where  I  began  making  the  little  Judge 
smart!  So  you  see  now,  Mr.  Penning,  how  Judge 
Gayland  happened  to  be  'aware  of  my  knowledge  of 
his  private  affairs.'  You  see  now  who  'took  in'  Mrs. 
Gayland!  Oh,  I  got  to  know  the  little  Judge  pretty 
well  —  a  little  too  well  for  his  comfort." 

Here  Mrs.  Branstane  retailed  a  few  of  the  Judge's 
lapses  in  probity  —  certain  passages  with  the  lighter 
feminine  element,  a  few  flirtations  with  the  law,  too, 
most  of  them  a  tissue  of  her  imagination,  like  the 
figment  about  her  "daughter."  Yet  there  was  nothing 
to  warn  Penning  of  these  diversions  from  fact.  Noth- 
ing was  left  to  help  him  stem  this  tide  of  invective 
and  damnation,  and  he  breasted  it  mute,  pained,  and 
helpless. 

"Twelve  years  of  that  sort  of  thing,  Mr.  Penning!" 
the  fury  raged  on.  "And  oh,  he  didn't  relish  it, 
either!     For  all  his  wild   scramble  after   pleasure,  he 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  275 

got  precious  little  of  it.  /  saw  to  that!  For  a  while 
I  licked  his  hand.  But  not,  not  for  long.  What  do 
you  suppose  /  felt  when  I  saw  him  take  his  fine 
family  out  in  his  fine  carriages  and  cars,  while  I,  I 
was  left  behind,  to  remember  other  days.^  What  do 
you  suppose  /  thought  when  the  great  and  grand 
company  flocked  to  his  house,  and  toasted  the  fine 
gentleman,  the  brilliant  legal  light,  and  all  that  rot! 
.  .  .  Twelve  years  with  that  in  my  heart —  !" 

Mrs.  Branstane  sent  her  body  through  the  appear- 
ance of  a  wrench  at  the  thought. 

"Well,"  she  panted  on,  rather  short  of  breath  by 
now,  "he  paid  the  penalty.  Oh,  he  paid  it!  And  so 
has  she  paid,  too." 

By  lightning  instinct  Penning  had  taken  a  step 
toward  her. 

The  action  stung  Mrs.  Branstane,  with  its  imputa- 
tion, its  revelation  of  Penning's  position  still,  in  spite 
of  her  efforts  to  impress  him  in  her  favour. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry,"  she  laughed.  "The  old 
fool  doesn't  know  what  a  side  issue  she's  been  all 
along.  Not  yet,  that  is" — spoken  grimly  enough! 
"Reminds  me  of  a  brewery  horse,  so  she  does!  And 
oh,  it  was  sweet  to  me  to  see  her  go  through  the 
motions  of  being  a  fine  lady,  sometimes,  and  lording 
it  over  me  —  when  with  one  word  I  could  have 
crushed  her  little  fool  world  like  a  cockle  shell." 

And  Mrs.  Branstane  reached  out  and  crushed  an 
imaginary  something  in  the  air. 

"Hideous  of  me,  is  it?"  her  conscience  intervened. 
"I  suppose  it  is!  But  I  don't  care  any  more.  It's 
too  late  to  care.  Why  shouldn't  I  get  what  amuse- 
ment I  could,  while  you  and  all  the  town  were  laud- 
ing that  man  and  woman  to  the  skies,  when  I  was 


276  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

the  one  that  ran  the  machinery!  I  was  the  brains 
of  it  all.  0-oh"  —  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  in  the 
general  direction  of  Lincoln  Avenue  and  addressed 
the  distant  Mrs.  Gayland  —  "you  poor  old  jade,  I 
made  you.  Little  wonder  that  sometimes  the  Judge 
wanted  to  come  back  to  me.  He  knew.  But  that 
was  where  I  could  make  the  little  Judge  dance  to 
merry  music!     He  '11  die  of  it  finally." 

An  exclamation  escaped  from  Penning.  He  was  a 
sponge  of  mind  in  an  ocean  of  discovery.  This  sorry 
history,  this  complicated  character,  flooding  upon 
him  thus,  kept  him  tossing  between  sympathy  for 
the  woman's  very  real  wrongs,  and  revulsion  at  each 
new  unloveliness  of  character  she  exposed. 

His  gasp  of  astonishment  Mrs.  Branstane  took  for 
condemnation,  of  course,  and  she  bristled  at  once  with 
resentment. 

"Aha-a-a!"  She  drew  up  a  chair  close  to  where 
Penning  had  sunk  down  on  the  low  windowsill  beside 
his  desk,  and  seated  herself  on  its  arm. 

"So!  So  that 's  the  way  you  look  at  it,  is  it,  Mr. 
Penning.^  Well,  well!  So  you  are  like  them  all — for 
all  they  say  of  your  grand  manners.  You  elbow  your 
own  way  along  with  never  a  thought  of  how  much 
pain  you  may  be  giving  to  others.  For  some  years 
you  've  been  visiting  that  house  of  Gaylands,  haven't 
you.*^  And  you  saw  me  there  —  a  servant  apparently? 
And  all  the  time  you  treated  me  like  one,  didn't 
you.*^  For  all  I  tried  often  to  put  us  on  a  pleasanter 
footing.  For  years  you  ignored  me.  Pained  me. 
And  never  cared.     A-ah.^" 

Seeing  the  new  surprise  on  Penning's  face,  Mrs. 
Branstane  stopped  for  a  moment. 

"It  isn't  nice  of  me,  is  it,  when  everything  is  going 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  277 

along  so  smooth,  so  much  to  your  satisfaction,  to 
show  you  that  you  're  not  the  pleasant  fellow  you  've 
been  thinking  yourself  —  the  polished  and  grand  Mr. 
Penning?" 

For  a  second  Mrs.  Branstane  had  abashed  him. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  madam,"  he  said.  "I 
humbly  beg  your  pardon." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,  man!"  she  answered,  magnani- 
mously accepting  his  unexpected  humility.  "You're 
all  right  —  a  long  way  ahead  of  anybody  else  in  this 
town.  You  know  why  you  stepped  aside  in  that 
nomination  affair.  You  know  and  /  know  why  you 
did  it.  I  saw  it,  and  said  so,  to  the  Gaylands,  right 
at  the  time.  And  I  say  again,  man,  it  was  grand! 
That's  what  it  was,  it  was  grand!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  even  held  out  her  hand.  In  another 
person  who  had  "stepped  aside,"  she  recognised  a 
kindred  spirit,  and  she  meant  him  to  know  it. 

It  was  never  to  her  taste,  however,  to  have  her 
felicitations  received  with  too  little  enthusiasm. 

"You  do  me  too  much  honour,  madam,"  Penning 
replied,  with  a  touch  of  his  irony. 

Somehow  Mrs.  Branstane's  felicitations  were  always 
being  too  indifferently  received. 

"So!"  she  said,  and  rose  again.  "So  that's  how 
you  take  me,  is  it?  You  can  be  fine  and  great  to 
people  you  take  as  your  social  equals.  But  when  it 
comes  to  —  to  servants,  why — "  She  gestured  her 
scorn. 

"Well!"  she  concluded,  buttoning  a  glove  by  way 
of  indicating  an  end  of  the  more  sentimental  aspect 
of  this  "business"  they  were  to  discuss.  "Judge 
Gayland  exerted  himself  a  little  to  make  respitution 
to  me  —  not  much,  but  a  little.     The  old  sot  blew 


278  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

too  much  on  his  horses  and  his  wines!"  she  inter- 
posed, always  unable  to  pass  a  possible  parenthesis 
in  the  direction  of  Gayland's  injuries  to  herself.  "And 
when  I  tried  to  make  him  see  the  idiocy  of  his  ex- 
travagance, he  went  to  work  and  spent  all  the  more. 
But"  —  Mrs.  Branstane  now  bent  upon  Penning  the 
familiar  knowing  smile  —  "it  will  be  interesting  to 
see  how  you  set  to  work  and  exert  yourself,  Mr. 
Penning,  to  wipe  out  your  little  slights  to  me." 

Meeting  another  smile,  of  gathering  comprehen- 
sion, on  Penning's  face,  Mrs.  Branstane  spoke  more 
pointedly.  "So!  You  laugh,  do  you?  Well,  if  / 
can't  make  you  see  how  pleasant  it  would  be  for  you 
to  change  your  style  toward  me,  perhaps" — she 
paused,  and  then  snapped  out  —  "perhaps  Miss 
Annabel  Gayland  can  show  you  that.  So  I  say,  it 
will  be  interesting  to  me  to  see  what  sort  of  respitution 
you  expect  to  make." 

Penning  laughed  outright  and  rose  from  his  seat 
on  the  sill.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane had  finished.  He  had  listened  too  patiently, 
as  it  was,  and  he  would  hear  no  more. 

"I  shall  exert  myself  to  see  that  Miss  Annabel 
Gayland  is  freed  of  you  as  promptly  as  possible,"  he 
said  with  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER   IV 

MRS.  BRANSTANE  had  come  to  Penning  that 
morning  with  the  original  intention  of  being 
reheved  of  the  onus  of  supporting  the  Gay- 
lands  and  their  household  any  longer.  Still,  she  had 
come  in  a  state  of  irritation.  These  drains  upon  her 
"savings"  had  nettled  her.  But  chief  of  all  she  had 
brought  her  eternal  zest  for  combat,  her  inveterate 
craving  to  dominate  somebody  or  something.  As 
usual  her  tongue,  once  started,  had  run  away  with 
her.  Wild  talk  was  one  of  her  inexpensive  modes  of 
revenge  upon  a  world  that  she  always  accused  of 
abusing  her.  And  now  the  wild  talk  had  run  so 
far  beyond  her  innocent  intentions  that  even  she 
was  amazed  at  being  taken  so  seriously. 

At  the  same  time,  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Mrs. 
Branstane  to  retract  anything  once  spoken.  Having 
pronounced,  she  was  accustomed  to  stand,  whatever 
the  cost,  by  her  words. 

Now  she  knew  only  that  she  had  come  to  a  point 
where  any  further  extravagance  of  hers  mattered 
nothing.  The  leash  was  off.  She  had  ceased  to  care. 
And  hustled  by  one  of  her  free  impulses,  she  threw 
back  her  head,  laughing  the  while,  and  fell  into  a 
remarkable  counterfeit  of  her  former  posture  of  in- 
jured innocence  and  dignity  which  had  so  impressed 
Penning  with  her  sincerity,  and  quoted  herself:  — 

'"I  may  take  away  some  of  your  dearest  illusions 
about  an  honoured  friend,  Mr.  Penning.     I  come  here 


280  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

in  the  interests  of  two  persons  who  concern  you 
deeply,  and  even  I  am  supposed  to  respect!'" 

Then  she  laughed  her  low  laugh. 

With  this  flashlight  into  new  depths  in  this  strange 
character,  Penning  was  the  more  stunned  and  bewil- 
dered. Where  did  her  cunning  end?  Peering  into  her 
burning  eyes,  he  read  into  them  his  own  imaginings. 

And  noting  this  deepening  suspicion  of  her  sincerity, 
Mrs.  Branstane  laughed  the  more  exultantly. 

"Oh,  come,  come,  Mr.  Penning!"  she  said  — 
willing,  and  daring,  to  say  anything  now.  "Wake 
up,  wake  up!  You  love  Annabel.  The  whole  town 
knows  it.  Well,  that 's  the  way  I  loved  my  daughter. 
I  'm  rather  fond  of  Annabel  myself.  She  's  the  only 
person  in  this  town  who  's  been  half  way  decent  to 
me.  If  she  knew  the  whole  truth  she  'd  be  more 
fair  to  me  still.  Or  I  'm  very  much  mistaken  in  that 
young  lady.  She  likes  me  fairly  well  as  it  is.  And 
has  reason  to.  Good  Lord,  I  laugh  when  I  think  of 
what  I  am  doing  for  those  women  now!  After  all 
the  years  they  've  lolled  in  their  silks  and  lived  off 
of  what  was  mine,  when  all  the  while  I  fairly  had  to 
steal  for  my  daughter!  I  say,  what  do  you  suppose 
I  felt  to  see  such  waste  —  the  waste  of  my  life  besides, 
and  my  daughter's  — " 

' '  Yes  —  yes.     Your  '  daughter ' ! " 

"Drat  my  'daughter,'  eh? — provided  I  ever  had 
a  daughter.  Why  don't  you  speak  your  mind,  Mr. 
Penning?" 

Mrs.  Branstane  had  no  daughter,  but  she  had  no 
intention  of  listening  to  any  disparagement  of  even 
a  figment  of  her  fancy. 

Still,  by  now  Penning  had  floundered  through  to  a 
few  convictions. 


THE    END    OF   THE    FLIGHT  281 

"I  '11  speak  my  mind,"  he  said  quietly.  "What  I 
can't  fathom  in  all  this  —  this — " 

"Rigmarole?" 

"Rigmarole,"  he  assented  bravely,  "is  why  you 
had  to  go  up  to  Gayland's  house  in  the  first  place. 
You  might  have  known  how  it  would  be.  Why  did 
you  stifle  the  man  with  your  attentions,  if  he  made  it 
plain  that  he  didn't  want  them?  Nearly  every  human 
being  has  that  experience  some  time  in  life.  I  don't 
doubt  you  have  suffered.  But  every  day  men  and 
women  sufl'er  as  you  did,  and  bear  it  with  patience, 
while  you — !"  He  gestured  his  impatience.  "At 
any  rate,"  he  continued,  "now  that  you  have  had 
your  fill  of  revenge  on  Judge  Gayland,  as  you  say, 
why  do  you  stay  on  up  there,  to  worry  these  un- 
offending women.     They  're  not  — " 

"Because  — " 

" — not  to  blame  for  any  suffering  of  yours.  I 
can't  comprehend  such  cruelty.  And  you  delight  in 
it!     I  can't  help  doubting  your  sincerity." 

More  earnestly,  more  confidently  Penning  walked  close 
to  the  woman  —  bore  down  on  her  with  his  charges. 

"Your  daughter,  for  instance.  I  wonder,  now, 
have  you  really  a  daughter?  I  don't  believe  half  of 
what  you  tell  me.  Probably  you  have  suffered  to 
some  extent.  Well,  why,  in  God's  name,  do  you  pro- 
long it?  Why  don't  you  go  away?  You  have  money. 
Why  not  go  away  somewhere  where  you  can  be 
happy?  Go  to  this  —  this  daughter  of  yours!  Pah!" 
He  turned  away.  "I  don't  believe  you.  No;  I  don't 
believe  you  ever  had  a  daughter.  You  're  not  the 
sort  of  woman  who  has,  who  wants,  children." 

"No,  Mr.  Penning;  you  are  right.  I  have  no 
daughter." 


282  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Once  before  Mrs.  Branstane  had  impressed  Penning 
with  a  show  of  injured  dignity.  This  time  she  caught 
him  up  with  a  burst  of  humility  —  some  trace  of  it 
sincere.  And  again  Penning  was  shaken  and  brought 
to  the  blush. 

"No,  Mr.  Penning,"  Mrs.  Branstane  said,  "I  have 
no  daughter.  My  daughter  is  dead.  Dead  for  ten 
years.  It  isn't  a  pleasant  thing  for  a  woman  to  say, 
but  I  'm  glad  my  daughter  was  spared  the  knowing 
of  certain  things.  I  was  always  afraid  she  might 
learn.     But  that 's  one  thing  I  'm  saved." 

Mrs.  Branstane  paused.  Fortunate  thought,  this 
"death"  of  her  "daughter."  Now  came  another 
inspiration.  In  a  flash  her  feigned  humility  was  gone, 
—  when  she  saw  its  success  in  abashing  him. 

"Ha!"  she  fairly  shouted.  "See  how  you  insult 
me!  I  lie,  do  I?  Well,  I  do  not  lie!  Not  when  I 
tell  you  that  all  those  Gay  land  women  have  is  mine! 
Mine!  Gayland  knew  that.  He  admitted  as  much. 
Me  leave?  Why  not  they,  Mr.  Penning?  Me  leave? 
Me?  In  one  minute  leave  the  life  where  I  've  toiled, 
and  endured,  and  suffered?  And  earned?  .  .  .  Don't 
you  suppose  I  'm  attached  to  this  place?  Could  you 
leave  here  in  a  minute  —  here  where  you  've  made  a 
world  for  yourself,  where  Annabel  is,  and  all  your 
interests  are?  Me  leave?"  Mrs.  Branstane  pointed 
a  finger  at  her  bosom.     "I  guess  not!" 

The  clock  in  the  court-house  tower  struck  the  hour 
of  one. 

"Ah!  One  o'clock.  Well,  Mr.  Penning,"  Mrs. 
Branstane  laughed  as  she  began  to  button  her  coat, 
"I  merely  dropped  in  to-day  to  pay  you  my  respects. 
'Let  us  come  down  to  business  at  once,  Mr.  Pen- 
ning'!"   she  mocked.     "I  really  did  mean  to  consult 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  283 

you  about  the  Gaylands'  money  affairs.  But  we  seem 
to  have  drifted  into  other  matters,  don't  we !  Well  — 
it 's  just  as  well  that  you  and  I  should  be  better 
acquainted  —  seeing  how  much  we  are  going  to  be 
thrown  together  from  now  on." 

There  was  infinite  unction  in  her  tone. 

The  last  glove  was  buttoned.  The  umbrella  was 
firmly  in  her  hand.  She  was  ready  to  depart.  But 
she  stepped  close  to  Penning  for  a  final  word. 

"Beally,  you  amuse  me.  You  think  a  person  can 
go  through  every  sort  of  bitterness  at  the  hands  of 
someone  —  and  then  gracefully  forget  it  all  and  get 
out  of  the  way  and  not  be  a  nuisance  when  it 's  time 
someone  paid  for  it  all.  Well" — she  was  turning 
toward  the  door  —  "I'm  no  such  saint  as  all  that. 
For  all  you  read  about  'em  in  the  books." 

Near  the  door  she  looked  over  her  shoulder,  to 
finish,  "I  shall  surely  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
again.     Good  morning." 

And  she  was  gone. 

Mrs.  Branstane  had  talked  quite  enough  for  one 
occasion.  The  tincture  of  the  actress  in  her,  the 
artist,  knew  that  here  was  the  happy  moment  for  an 
effective  exit ;  and  she  swept  away  —  leaving  Penning 
to  stare  with  open  mouth  at  the  space  there  before 
him,  which  this  apparition  had  suddenly  vacated. 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  the  evening  of  that  day,  a  good  deal  to  the 
perplexity  of  Miss  Annabel  Gayland,  Mr. 
Penning,  instead  of  calling  in  person,  sent  a 
note  to  her,  imbedded  in  a  bouquet  of  violets.  The 
note  explained  that  pressure  of  business  would  keep 
him  at  work. 

For  three  consecutive  evenings  pressure  of  business 
prevented  Judge  Penning  from  calling  upon  Miss 
Gayland. 

There  was  ample  excuse,  of  course,  for  the  prompti- 
tude of  his  making  an  ass  of  himself.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  had  been  confronted  with  just  the 
brand  of  womankind  represented  by  Mrs.  Branstane, 
and  he  needed  time  to  classify  it,  and  order  it  in  his 
mind,  and  invent  a  way  to  meet  it. 

All  those  unpleasant  facts  about  the  Gaylands 
might  after  all  be  true;  but  he  was  outraged  at  being 
told  of  them.  He  preferred  to  live  in  illusion.  At 
all  events  he  had  first  to  live  out  of  this  puddle  of  re- 
port and  innuendo  and  statement  that  Mrs.  Branstane 
had  poured  upon  him.  Then  he  might  set  about  elim- 
inating that  dragon  from  their  world. 

The  elimination,  something  told  him,  if  Gayland 
had  never  in  all  his  life  been  able  to  dislodge  her, 
would  only  be  accomplished  with  something  of  a 
wrench.  Penning  she  affected  as  the  hook  affects  a 
fish.  But  wild  as  he  was  to  be  free,  he  could  see  it 
was  going  to  cost  him  a  struggle. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  285 

For  four  days  he  puzzled  how  he  should  pluck  out 
this  barb.  About  him  life  went  on  as  usual.  As 
usual  the  town  followed  its  ancient  pursuits,  some  of 
them  important.  Kreisler  came  to  give  a  recital,  and 
Annabel  should  have  been  with  him  there.  Certainly 
the  problems  confronting  Senator  Banks  about  then 
were  apt  to  be  important,  and  Penning's  conscience 
made  him  acutely  aware  that  he  was  due  to  help  his 
old  friend  across  his  troubles.  But  they  might  wait 
as  they  could,  while  he  ridded  himself  of  his  own. 

Nasty,  intruding,  fixed  fact,  this  that  had  thrust 
itself  into  his  world!  Lately  he  had  chafed  and  girded 
at  the  pettiness  of  life  in  the  town.  Now  it  was  going 
to  be  petty  no  longer.  Now,  as  Mrs.  Gayland  had 
learned  on  her  first  encounter  with  this  rude  force  in 
Mrs.  Branstane,  as  Judge  Gayland  must  have  learned 
when  she  stalked  into  his  office,  as  everybody  must 
have  learned  who  unluckily  attracted  the  attentions 
of  Mrs.  Branstane,  Penning  knew  that  life  was  going 
to  be  unpleasantly  different  for  him.  .  .  . 

But  before  he  could  find  occasion  for  slaying  her, 
Mrs.  Branstane  paid  him  another  call  in  Court's  Cham- 
bers, having  watched  her  chance  and  chosen  a  season 
of  business  quietude  rather  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
the  lawyers  were  wont  to  leave  the  Judge  free  to  his 
official  labours. 

Penning  happened  to  be  out  when  she  arrived,  but  he 
returned  before  her  patience  was  quite  exhausted,  and 
she  smiled  upon  him  generously  as  he  entered  the  door. 

She  might  have  dispensed  with  her  sweet  smile. 

"So!"  the  Judge  said,  at  sight  of  her.  "Well, 
what  do  you  want  now.^*" 

There  seemed  to  be  no  further  need  of  concealing 
his  hatred. 


286  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

At  once  Mrs.  Branstane  knew  the  mood  she  was 
obliged  to  meet,  and  at  once  attuned  herself  to  its 
key.  Her  lips  went  tightly  together,  and  her  eyes 
narrowed  to  the  familiar  two  slits. 

"Better  treat  me  with  a  little  more  respect,  young 
man,"  she  said;    "if  you  know  your  best  interests." 

Penning  laughed.  Having  given  up  his  coat  and 
hat  to  old  Drumgoogle  and  sought  his  station  behind 
his  desk,  he  leaned  over  it  and  said  into  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane's  face, 

"We'll  waste  no  time  to-day.  I  have  determined 
that  you  are  not  to  remain  with  Mrs.  Gayland." 

At  which  Mrs.  Branstane  took  a  turn  at  laughter. 

"Make  no  mistake,"  Penning  added,  and  for  an 
instant  Mrs.  Branstane  was  silent  in  respectful  study 
of  him.  "If  you  don't  leave  of  your  own  accord,  I 
shall  have  to  pain  Mrs.  Gayland  with  the  truth  about 
her  husband  —  and  about  you." 

Again  Mrs.  Branstane's  face  relaxed  into  a  broad 
smile. 

"I  see,"  she  said,  in  the  old  "fawnciful"  manner. 
"I  see  you  don't  quite  appreciate  my  position.  You 
fancy,  Mr.  Penning,  that  Mrs.  Gayland  is  up  there 
sick  from  the  shock  of  the  Judge's  break,  don't  you? 
Bless  you,  my  good  man,  it  would  take  more  than 
that  to  make  that  old  jade  so  sick  as  all  that  —  and 
for  a  whole  month.  What  does  she  care  about  losing 
the  Judge!  The  thing  that  grieves  her  is  that  she 
can't  move  in  her  old  glory  any  more.  That 's  what 
cuts  her.  The  only  thing  that  would  cut  her.  And 
what 's  more,  she  thinks  it 's  all  her  own  fault.  That 's 
the  disease  she  's  got." 

"So?"    Penning  pointedly  doubted. 

It  occurred  to  him  to  let  the  woman  run  free  for  a 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  287 

space.  By  letting  her  define  her  "position"  more 
fully  he  stood  to  learn  the  more  of  her  powers  and 
how  to  meet  them. 

"Yes,  'so'!"  Mrs.  Branstane  said  readily  enough. 
"Huh!  Last  week  she  wouldn't  speak  to  me  for  two 
whole  days  —  and  why?  Because  I  told  her  the 
Judge  was  a  far  grander  man  than  she  ever  knew  he 
was.  And  she  was  jealous.  Jealous  to  learn  that  I 
knew  him  better  than  she  did!"  Mrs.  Branstane 
laughed  her  low  laugh.  "And  she  took  to  her  bed 
when  I  told  her  further  that  the  Judge  was  where  he 
is  because  of  her  neglect.  Does  that  throw  any  more 
light  on  her  —  her  'disease'.^" 

Penning  said,  "Mrs.  Gayland  can  easily  be  cured 
of  that  'disease!" 

Only  to  provoke  Mrs.  Branstane  to  laughter  again. 

She  was  indescribably  happy.  This  was  delightful. 
What  a  toy  she  had  found  this  man  to  be!  Infinitely 
better  than  the  fussy  little  fopperies  of  Gayland,  that 
she  had  once  loved  to  belabour  —  and  would  have 
belaboured  even  more  as  his  wife!  For  a  while  Landis 
had  pleased  her,  with  his  daring,  his  "nerve"  — 
a  nerve  that  after  all  proved  to  be  nothing  but  a 
defiance  of  the  decencies.  And  Mrs.  Branstane  had 
known  Gayland  long  enough  to  classify  clean  nails 
and  correct  English  among  the  decencies. 

But  here  in  Penning  were  decencies  unknown  even 
to  Gayland  —  and  twenty  times  his  brains.  And 
upon  these  brains  Mrs.  Branstane  found  herself  play- 
ing as  she  had  never  been  able  to  play  upon  any 
other.     She  was  impressing  the  first  mind  in  Rossacre. 

Needless  to  say  she  went  on  with  her  impression. 

"Don't  deceive  yourself,  young  man,"  she  laughed. 
"I  'd  like  to  see  you  try  to  cure  Mrs.  Gayland  of  that 


288  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

disease.  You  think  you  can  prance  up  there  and  tell 
the  Gayland  women  all  about  me  and  about  the 
Judge,  and  save  me  all  the  bother  of  doing  it  myself. 
Don't  you?  But  do  you  really  know  what  they  think 
of  me?  I  've  got  a  little  temper.  But  otherwise  they 
think  I  'm  perfect.  They  couldn't  get  along  a  minute 
without  me,  and  they  know  it.  They  need  me  to 
run  their  very  minds  —  the  way  I  've  been  doing, 
right  along,  for  twelve  years.  Why,  man,  you  couldn't 
utter  one  mean,  malicious  word  against  me  to  Mrs. 
Gayland,  or  to  Annabel,  either,  but  they  'd  both  send 
you  about  your  business  in  a  second!" 

At  this  point  in  these  interesting  proceedings  there 
shot  up  before  Mrs.  Branstane  six-feet-one  and  thirty- 
five  years  of  vigorous  masculine  body  and  mind.  The 
gentleman  in  command  of  them  had  gone  very  pale. 
His  lips  even  were  pale.  One  of  his  hands  raised  a 
convenient  law-book.     The  other  pointed  to  the  door. 

That  much  was  instinct  —  the  instinct  handed 
down  through  many  thousands  of  years. 

In  answer  Mrs.  Branstane  curled  her  lip,  tossed  her 
head,  gathered  her  skirts  together  with  infinite  care,  not 
to  gather  more  contamination  from  this  atmosphere; 
and  moved  toward  the  door  —  in  no  haste,  however. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  airily.  "I  see  I'll  have  to 
'cure'  Mrs.  Gayland  myself." 

But  Penning  now  had  found  the  proper  missile  — 
not  a  book  but  a  shaft  of  wit.  "Ah,  madam,"  he 
said;  "you  are  far  too  good  a  physician  to  cure  so 
paying  a  patient." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Branstane  wavered  between  an 
impulse  to  laugh  at  the  pleasantry,  and  another  to 
be  furious  at  the  insult. 

Before  she  could  obey  either.  Penning  was  pressing 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  289 

on  withrfthis  weapon  of  irony,  unexpectedly  effective. 
Studying  Mrs.  Branstane  with  an  amused  twinkle  in  his 
eye  that  quickly  invited  her  sharpest  scrutiny,  he  stepped 
from  behind  his  desk,  all  suavity  now,  and  began,  — 

"Really,  Mrs.  Branstane,  it  is  very  stupid  of  me. 
There 's  something  that  I  seem  to  have  forgotten. 
Here  are  those  heavy  expenses  you  are  under  in 
running  the  Gayland  household  —  all  this  while. 
Perhaps  for  years.  I  never  thought  of  that  till  now. 
You  '11  admit,  I  know,  that  the  debt  belongs  to  me. 
I  believe  I  've  been  given  to  understand  that  you 
would  be  glad  enough  to  be  free  of  the  burden. ^  It 
seems  to  me  you  have  expressed  yourself  to  that 
effect.  And  I  think  we  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  are  an  eminently  truthful  woman." 

He  paused;  and  vainly  seeking  to  fathom  the 
intent  hidden  behind  his  faintly  mocking  manner, 
Mrs.  Branstane  looked  him  over.  Suddenly  this 
delightful  mind,  upon  whose  simplicity  she  had  been 
playing,  had  become  as  deep  as  her  own. 

"Come  now,"  she  heard  his  words  interrupting  her 
study  of  him.  "Can't  we  come  to  real  business  at 
last,  without  further  misunderstanding?  How  much 
has  it  cost  you?"  He  waited  for  an  answer.  And 
added  the  persuasion,  "I'll  accept  any  estimate  you 
please  to  give.  Provided,  of  course,  you  give  me  also 
a  discharge  in  full.  .  .  .     What  do  you  say?" 

Penning  himself  never  suspected  the  closeness  of  his 
approach  to  victory  over  the  woman  at  that  moment. 
Taken  unawares,  with  a  lump  of  money  —  any  lump 
she  might  name! — dangled  before  her  eyes,  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  almost  surrendered  the  precious 
obligations  she  held  over  the   Gaylands. 

And  caught  herself  only  in  the  nick  of  time. 


290  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Come!"  Penning  was  urging,  at  her  hesitation. 
"Isn't  that  a  fair  proposed?" 

"It's  a  pretty  fair  sample  of  an  insult!"  she 
answered;  for  in  the  nick  of  time  it  came  to  her  that 
the  particular  commodity  he  wished  to  buy  at  that 
figure  must  be  too  valuable  to  sell.  "It's  a  pretty 
fair  sample  of  what  I  've  been  made  to  suffer  all 
along.  .  .  .  How  can  you  think  I  'm  as  mean  as  all 
that!  As  if  I  begrudged  those  people  a  little  help! 
As  if  my  wrongs  could  be  smoothed  out  with  a  little 
money!  ...  I  came  here  for  your  help  in  settling 
the  future  of  that  family.  Anything  wrong  about 
that?  .  .  .  Hideous  of  me,  isn't  it,  to  bestir  myself 
for  that  household,  after  the  way  I  've  fared  there! 
That  seems  to  make  me  a  thief,  doesn't  it!  I  'm 
hounding  the  Gayland  ladies,  eh!  What  other  beauti- 
ful thoughts  like  that  have  you  got  in  your  mind,  Mr. 
Penning?  .  .  .  0-oh!  — "   she  turned   away,   choking. 

In  some  fashion  her  intention  of  blazing  with  anger 
had  flickered  into  a  glow  of  self-pity  instead.  And  it 
was  serving,  Mrs.  Branstane  was  surprised  to  find, 
even  better.  This  sort  of  thing  touched  him,  she  saw; 
where  anger  only  set  them  at  loggerheads. 

"We-ell,"  she  sighed,  with  her  face  still  averted. 
Even  dabbed  a  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  And  moved 
in  sorrow  to  the  door.  "I  know  one  person,  anyway, 
who  doesn't  think  such  things  of  me."  And  with 
the  appearance  of  just  having  suffered  the  cruellest 
wrong  of  all,  she  was  gone. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her  Penning  stalked  to  a 
window  and  stared  out  of  it.  But  all  he  saw  was  the 
clear  conviction  that  in  succeeding  to  Gayland's 
honours  —  such  as  they  were  —  he  had  succeeded  to 
Gayland's  problem  as  well. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEVERTHELESS  Penning  promptly  set  out 
to  slay  the  dragon. 
Four  consecutive  evenings  he  let  pass  with- 
out a  visit  to  the  Gaylands.  On  the  fifth,  in  com- 
pliment to  a  special  invitation  to  dinner,  he  set  out 
from  the  Club  with  a  good  eager  half  hour  to  spare, 
for  a  preliminary  stroll.  Something  of  an  evening  it 
was,  on  the  verge  of  March,  with  even  a  few  abortive 
hints  of  Spring  in  the  air.  Two  or  three  times  a  year, 
perhaps,  late  February  will  put  on  this  accidentally 
genial  mood,  when  a  blue-bird  may  arrive,  and  the  air 
invites  to  song.    Penning  was  so  moved,  at  his  shaving. 

He  was  going  to  slay  the  dragon. 

Vigorously  he  swung  his  stick  as  he  sauntered  up 
the  Avenue,  and  leaned  against  a  breeze  that  pushed 
out  the  tails  of  his  light  grey  topcoat  and  filled  his 
nostrils  with  the  scent  of  pines  blown  down  from  the 
hills. 

The  asphalt  rang  with  the  hoofs  of  horses  home- 
driven  from  their  first  excursion  out  into  Spring.  In 
almost  metropolitan  frequency  Fords  and  street-cars 
whined  past,  bearing  down  town  Saturday  night 
shoppers  and  seekers  of  pleasure.  The  sidewalks 
were  thronged  with  millhands  in  Sabbath  raiment. 
Constantly  Penning's  hat  was  off  his  head  in  reply 
to  salutes  from  passing  carriages  and  motors  or  pass- 
ing pedestrians.  Workmen  eagerly  saluted  him  and 
gladly  he  responded. 


292  THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

"Fine  man,  Judge  Penning!  Not  cifraid  to  know  a 
body  when  he  sees  youl"  Half  a  dozen  times  Pen- 
ning sent  that  sentiment  strutting  down  the  Avenue. 

One  idea  alone  marred  the  satisfaction  of  the  young 
Judge.  The  dragon  was  not  to  be  slain  without, 
possibly,  a  few  interesting  moments  for  all  concerned. 

That  might  be  as  it  would,  he  decided.  The  thing 
must  be  done. 

And  on  reaching  the  Gayland  gateway,  he  tore  up 
the  path  to  the  door  with  the  precipitancy  of  a  boy 
in  an  orchard.  Up  the  steps  to  the  piazza  he  leaped 
three  at  a  time,  and  gave  the  bell  a  push  as  long  as 
his  patience  was  short.  Old  Berkeley,  whom  Annabel 
had  vainly  tried  to  discharge  along  with  Delphine  and 
Jonathan,  opened  to  him  with  that  grand  bow  which 
was  as  much  a  fixture  in  Rossacre  as  the  leafing  of 
the  trees  in  Spring.  Grandly  the  old  fellow  assumed 
the  responsibility  of  his  hat  and  coat,  and  Penning 
moved  into  the  great  hall. 

There,  tripping  down  the  stairs  to  meet  him,  at 
the  sound  of  his  ring,  was  Annabel.  A  new  Annabel, 
with  a  new  gladness  in  her  eye  at  sight  of  him,  with 
a  quieter  though  a  warmer  welcome  in  her  arm  out- 
stretched to  him. 

Only,  the  other  arm  was  twined  about  the  comely 
figure  of  Mrs.  Branstane. 

Arm  in  arm  they  descended  the  stair.  And  it 
transpired  that  this  was  not  the  evening  for  Judge 
Penning  to  slay  the  dragon. 

He  was  not  in  the  house  ten  minutes  before  noting 
that  the  Gayland  ladies  were  grateful  to  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane for  many  small  favours,  and  were  even  glad 
of  her  company,  precisely  as  she  said.  And  so  their 
disillusionment  was  not  to  be  painful,  simply;    it  was 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  293 

going  to  be  difficult,  too.  The  dinner-table  he  had 
intended  to  leave  as  it  should  be,  a  festival.  But 
those  quiet  and  intimate  moments  afterward,  about 
the  fire  in  the  library,  when  he  might  have  Annabel 
and  her  mother  to  himself,  for  the  gentle,  the  delicate 
masterpiece  of  idol-breaking  that  he  had  carefully  re- 
hearsed —  those  moments  were  denied  him.  Mrs. 
Branstane  too  was  there,  not  simply  on  equal  terms 
with  them  all,  but  the  life  of  the  party.  Well  she 
might  bubble  and  effervesce,  for  she  alone  of  them  all 
was  free  of  care.  And  she  made  the  most  of  her 
opportunity.  The  Gayland  ladies  themselves  had 
never  seen  her  in  such  form,  and  were  plainly  proud 
of  her. 

When  Mrs.  Branstane  once  left  them,  to  find  a  bit 
of  the  Judge's  old  cognac,  Annabel  herself  forestalled 
any  word  that  Penning  might  have  contrived  to  hint 
against  her,  with  such  a  burst  of  impetuous  and 
genuine  gratitude  as  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  undeceive. 

"Oh,  Pen,  she's  been  such  a  friend!  You  simply 
can't  know  what  she  's  been  to  us.  I  tell  you"  — 
and  in  her  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  up  to  him,  was 
frankly  brimming  all  that  she  strove,  in  her  bubbling 
chatter,  to  conceal  of  her  private  dear  self  —  "I  tell 
you  I  've  learned  a  lot  in  the  past  few  months.  And 
it  makes  me  ashamed  to  have  such  help  coming  from 
where  you  least  expected  it.  It 's  such  a  shame  not 
to  expect  it.  .  .  .  Isn't  it?"    she  put  to  him  candidly. 

And  what  could  he  say?  .  .  . 

With  this  tax  upon  his  patience  Penning  was  at 
once  laid  open  to  one  of  Mrs.  Branstane's  more  in- 
direct effects  upon  his  fortunes.     The  March  term  of 


294  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

court  was  at  hand,  and  with  it  his  first  presidency 
over  the  legal  differences  of  the  County.  Toward  that 
term  Penning  and  Penning's  admirers  had  looked 
with  eager  anticipation.  Now  at  last  they  were  to 
have  exhibited  to  them  the  master's  touch  at  such 
business. 

Yet  when  the  time  came,  Penning  found  that,  try 
as  he  would,  his  zest  for  his  work  was  by  no  means 
what  he  could  have  wished.  Other  matters,  galling 
and  nagging  irritations,  were  on  his  mind.  He  made 
no  mistakes,  of  course;  but  his  labours,  when  they 
were  finished,  made  no  better  than  a  simply  adequate 
showing,    an   ordinary   accomplishment. 

Possibly  he  understood,  then,  why  Gayland  had 
made  no  wider  reputation  as  a  jurist! 

Whatever  he  understood  of  Gayland,  he  under- 
stood of  himself  that  he  would  tolerate  not  a  moment 
longer  an  existence  of  such  quality.  Out  with  the 
thorn  in  his  flesh! 

That  firm  resolve  notwithstanding,  the  calendar  of 
that  year  ran  on,  rained  on,  sleeted,  snowed,  thawed 
on,  into  April  itself,  before  it  brought  to  Penning  the 
special  opening  so  long  denied  him  by  duty  and  diffi- 
culty. Again,  that  first  week  in  April,  a  fortunate  gap 
in  his  professional  engagements  and  a  dinner  with  the 
Gayland  ladies  made  it  now  or  never  for  him. 

By  then  the  relicts  of  Gayland  had  returned  to 
something  of  their  normal  life,  and  to  something  of 
their  former  spirits.  The  shock  of  revelation  need 
not  be  spared  them  on  such  grounds  now. 

This  favourable  atmosphere  Penning  sensed  the 
moment  he  had  entered  the  door,  and  Annabel  came 
bounding  down  the  stair  to  greet  him  in  the  old  way. 
AU  in  brown,   and  all  in  smiles,   her  arms  about  a 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  295 

great  bunch  of  roses,  she  came  tripping  toward  him. 
Three  paces  away  she  halted  and  curtsied,  and  sud- 
denly darkened  the  great  hall  with  a  severe  frown. 

"No  card  with 'em!"  she  pouted.  " Course  they 're 
your  roses.  No  one  else  thinks  of  sending  me  roses 
now.  But  it  annoys  me  to  have  you  know  that  so 
well.  You  're  so  sure  there  '11  be  no  confusion.  .  .  . 
And  where  have  you  been  for  four  whole  days  again, 
Sir  —  without  a  word  of  explanation  —  except  these 
beautiful  things.^^" — kissing  his  roses.  "You  needn't 
think  they  can  take  your  place." 

"They're  taking  it  now,"  was  Penning's  pointed 
rejoinder.  And  a  burst  of  approving  laughter  from 
midway  down  the  stair  published  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Branstane  had  been  a  witness  to  the  pretty  scene. 

Something  must  have  happened  to  Penning's  face, 
for  Miss  Severity  promptly  made  note  of  it. 

"Sir-r!"  She  stamped  an  accusing  foot.  "I  know 
where  you  've  been.  You  've  been  working  to  death. 
Just  as  father  did.  I  see  it  in  your  telltale  face.  It 's 
pale.  And  lined.  And  I  never  saw  it  so  grim.  I 
believe  it 's  been  grim  for  a  month,  come  to  think 
of  it."  There  she  defensively  buried  her  own  face  in 
the  roses,  with  her  eyes  peeping  over  them,  coax- 
ing for  confidence.  "Come,  tell  me.  What's  the 
matter?" 

Ordinarily  Penning  would  have  advanced  upon  the 
rose  defences,  but  with  the  audience  on  the  stairway 
looking  on  he  chose  to  stand  his  ground  and  lie 
playfully, 

"0-oh,  I've  been  ill." 

"111!"     The  roses  fell  precipitately  to  the  floor. 

"Yes.     Sick  with  apprehension." 

"  Apprehension. ^>     Of  me.^     Oh!     Then  I  'm  sicken- 


296  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

ing?"  She  haughtily  accepted  the  lifted  roses  from 
his  hand. 

"And  I  've  come  to  the  cause  of  the  mgJady  —  for 
a  homoeopathic  cure." 

"You  certainly  take  your  treatment  in  homoeo- 
pathic doses!" 

Hastily  Miss  Annabel  retreated  from  his  effort  to 
take  one. 

"But  such  treatment  as  I  get!"  he,  baffled,  pouted 
in  disappointment.  "Reproach  seems  to  be  the  only 
drug  in  your  cupboard,  Dr.  Gayland.  Berkeley,  old 
fellow" — for  Berkeley,  old  fellow,  was  privileged  to 
potter  about  like  some  movable  piece  of  furniture  — 
"don't  you  think  I  'm  just  racing  for  the  grave  if  I 
keep  on  with  such  a  doctor?" 

"Don't  you  think  he's  just  racing  for  the  grave, 
Berkeley,  when  he  wiU  let  his  doctor  prescribe  nothing 
but  sweets?" 

"Well,  mum.  Hi  expects  your  prescribin'  does  him 
a  heap  of  good,  no  matter  whut  it  is,  mum.  But  to 
me,  in  a  manner  o'  speakin',  he  seems  to  be  a-racin' 
for  the  haltar,  mum." 

"The  halter!  Quite  right,  Berkeley!  That's  all 
the  bridal  arrangement  ever  comes  to!"  Penning 
laughed. 

With  a  general  groan  they  all  fled  after  that,  partly 
in  play  and  partly  on  business,  Annabel  to  the  assis- 
tance of  her  mother  in  her  dressing,  always  a  desperate 
problem  for  one  of  her  bulk,  and  Mrs.  Branstane, 
summoning  Berkeley  with  her,  to  the  culinary  pur- 
lieus, for  a  final  review  of  the  dinner  arrangements; 
and  so  they  left  Penning  alone. 

Left  him  grinding  his  teeth.  Pretty  feeble  substi- 
tute, this  sophomoric  passage,  for  the  moments  with 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  297 

Annabel  that  he  could  always  expect  to  be  touched 
with  a  delicate  grace.  It  seemed  to  be  impossible 
for  Mrs.  Branstane  to  be  anywhere  without  immedi- 
ately poisoning  the  atmosphere.  Even  Annabel 
recognized  the  necessity  of  dragging  the  conversation 
down  to  the  level  of  that  woman's  comprehension. 

Already  she  had  made  herself  felt  in  his  work. 
Was  she  to  be  allowed  to  spoil  the  savour  of  all  the 
rest  of  his  life.^ 

Not  if  he  knew  it!  The  moment  they  all  returned 
he  meant  to  blaze  out.     Make  short  work  of  it.  .  .  . 

He  was  still  staring  these  firm  intentions  into  the 
answering  blaze  on  the  hearth,  when  he  heard  a  titter 
behind  him,  and  then  a  light  touch  on  his  arm.  Turn- 
ing, he  stared  astonishment  instead  into  the  blazing 
cheeks  of  Annabel  and  Mrs.  Branstane.  Arm  in  arm 
they  dropped  him  a  twin  curtsy,  and  he  was  startled 
to  mark,  with  the  firelight  playing  upon  their  faces  — 
Annabel's  all  roguish,  and  Mrs.  Branstane's  wearing 
a  mocking  smile  —  how  near  of  an  age  they  looked. 

"A  penny  for  your  powerful  thoughts!"  Annabel 
giggled.  "They  must  have  been  sweet  and  to  your 
taste.  You  never  heard  us.  And  you  haven't  yet 
told  me  how  I  look." 

She  caught  out  the  skirt  of  a  fetching  little  frock  in 
the  most  demure  of  browns,  and  began  teetering  about 
in  the  steps  of  an  impromptu  dance,  for  the  more 
perfect  display  of  it.  A  kiss  and  a  hug  —  for  Mrs. 
Branstane  —  ended  the  pirouette,  and  with  her  chin 
on  Brannie's  shoulder  she  admitted  to  him  sweetly, 

"This  lady  bought  it  for  me.  Wasn't  she  sweet? 
We  call  her  our  'counsel  for  the  defence.'  I  can't 
remember  all  the  wonders  she 's  done  for  us,  while 
the  slow-pokes  are  fixing  up  our  affairs." 


298  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

By  that  time  Mrs.  Gayland  had  got  herself  com- 
pressed into  her  attire  —  perhaps  with  many  ques- 
tionings of  the  Lord's  purpose  in  depriving  her  of 
Delphine  —  and  she  too  joined  the  group  in  the  hall, 
now  waiting  on  the  two  carved  oaken  benches  flank- 
ing the  fire,  for  the  announcement  of  dinner.  Still 
with  her  arm  about  "Brannie,"  and  perhaps  with  a 
feeling  of  the  —  the  honest  jealousy  of  Penning,  she 
thought  it,  Annabel  chattered  her  head  off,  in  her 
zeal  to  have  them  in  accord.  And  finally,  as  how 
could  he  help  it,  in  the  warm  flood  of  Annabel's  sunny 
cheer,  he  melted. 

"Oh,  well,  well!"  he  inwardly  groaned.  "A  little 
later,  then!" 

Indeed,  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  he  was  chattering 
himself,  to  Annabel  at  least.  She  quite  approved  of 
him  as  he  sat  with  the  firelight  flickering  over  his 
bold  features  —  iron  in  repose,  "melted  iron,"  Anna- 
bel called  them,  whenever  he  talked  or  was  interested. 

"Oh,  by  the  way.  Miss  Gayland!"  he  said  once. 
"I  —  I  hear  you  are  engaged.     Is  it  really  true?" 

"I  should  say  your  hearing  is  very  acute!"  she 
had  back  at  him. 

"Well,  ma'am,  however  that  be,  you  have  my  very 
best  wishes!" 

"I  certainly  have  need  of  them!"  And  they  all 
laughed. 

"Some  Judge,  I  learn.  Must  be  a  most  excellent 
judge!" 

No  saucy  reply  was  admissible  there,  and  for  reward 
of  his  elegancy  Penning  was  permitted  to  kiss  —  one 
of  his  roses,  thrust  into  his  face. 

After  due  celebration  of  that,  in  a  moment  or  two, 
Mrs.  Branstane  felt  herself  encouraged  to  a  trifling 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  299 

contribution  to  the  evening's  entertainment.  Annabel 
had  been  moved  to  sympathy  with  poor  Senator 
Banks.  That  afternoon  she  had  passed  in  the  com- 
pany of  Sylvia,  from  whom  she  had  garnered  the 
highly  human  fact  that,  painful  as  was  the  present 
state  of  their  affairs,  a  pack  of  poor  relations  was  due 
for  a  visit.     Whereat  Mrs.  Branstane  archly  observed, 

"What  a  pity  the  Senator  has  no  money  left!  If 
he  wanted  to  be  rid  of  his  poor  relations,  he  might 
lend  them  a  little." 

"Oh-e-e!"  Annabel  laughed.  "What  a  cloven- 
footed  saying!"  And  Auntie  Bran  was  suitably 
kissed,  in  applause  of  her  wit. 

During  the  evening,  it  happened  they  were  regaled 
by  sundry  other  bursts  of  wit  from  Auntie  Bran, 
for  she  was  not  long  in  seizing  her  own  part  —  and 
carried   it   off  amazingly   well. 

Truly  an  astonishing  performance.  Penning  himself 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  it. 

All  through  the  unruffled  smoothness  of  the  meal 
Penning  had  constantly  to  marvel  at  the  front  put 
up  by  the  woman.  At  any  near  approach  of  her  he 
had  expected  to  smell  brimstone.  Instead  he  sur- 
prised himself  with  more  than  once  swelling  the 
merriment  she  raised,  with  her  touches  of  anecdote, 
or  strokes  of  characterisation.  There  in  Judge  Gay- 
land's  dining-room,  the  realm  that  above  all  others 
in  his  house  was  intimately  his  own,  with  its  excellent 
paintings,  its  handsome  period  furniture,  all  of  it 
costly  and  antique,  with  an  old  Heppelwhite  side- 
board glittering  with  silver  —  in  that  very  domain 
Mrs.  Branstane  had  seated  herself  with  the  others, 
in  full  communion  with  them  all,  and  kept  them 
amused,  and  kept  Penning  from  blurting  a  single  re- 


300  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

mark  in  her  disfavour.  Almost  she  made  him  forget 
that  she  had  ever  been  anything  but  the  kindly  com- 
panion and  friend.  Never  had  the  two  Gayland  ladies 
themselves  seen  her  in  such  form.  Even  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  was  amazed  at  this  expansion  of  herself,  in 
response  to  an  audience.  Annabel's  eyes  danced  in 
astonishment,  and  pointedly  twinkled  at  Penning,  at 
this  parade  of  fresh  marvels  in  her  pupil. 

In  the  beginning  Penning  set  it  down  as  a  master- 
piece of  effrontery.  Later  on  he  thought  better  of  it. 
Mrs.  Rranstane  disclosed  a  truly  remarkable  faculty 
of  mimicry.  In  succession  she  took  off  Senator  Banks, 
and  Walker  Landis,  and  Mrs.  Landis,  and  Isabel 
Warren,  and  other  worthies  of  the  town,  till  Annabel 
rocked  in  merriment  of  the  satire,  and  even  Penning 
was  moved  to  laughter. 

And  when  they  returned  to  their  seats  before  the 
fire  in  the  hall  there  was  still  more  banter  and  con- 
viviality. And  all  the  while  Penning  listened  in 
wonder. 

Beyond  question  the  woman  possessed  gifts  — 
talent,  of  a  sort,  and  nothing  less.  As  he  watched 
Mrs.  Branstane  he  could  trace  in  her,  in  this  ready 
gush,  the  belated  consciousness  of  defeated  power. 
With  training,  with  education  and  opportunity,  he 
was  soon  willing  to  concede,  she  might  have  taken 
easy  precedence  over  all  but  one  or  two  women  he 
knew  in  the  town.  At  least,  though  he  grudged  to, 
he  could  understand  Annabel's  stubborn  prepossession 
in  her  favour.  It  was  simply  that  things  which  he 
had  been  tardy  to  discover  had  long  been  plain  to 
Annabel,  and  he  was  forced  to  a  humble  respect  of 
her  judgment.  Indeed,  in  his  humility,  he  was  so 
willing  to  battle  his  prejudice  and  do  justice  to  Mrs. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  301 

Branstane  that  before  he  left  he  was  ready  to  see  in 
her  powers  of  mimicry,  in  her  flexible  and  expressive 
voice,  in  the  gathering  authority  of  her  manner,  not 
simply  everything  that  Mrs.  Branstane  herself  was 
eager  to  assume,  but  something  of  the  artist  besides. 
After  all,  given  the  favourable  atmosphere,  it  was  not 
beyond  reason  to  think  of  her  gift  as  flowering  out 
into  something  of  importance.  It  was  not  beyond 
reason  to  think  of  her  as  an  acceptable  addition  to 
the  stage. 

And  so  he  took  his  leave,  about  eleven  that  night, 
and  sauntered  down  the  Avenue,  and  climbed  the 
stairs  to  his  snuggery,  and  touched  off  the  logs  on 
his  hearth.  With  Sherry  Brookes  in  Philadelphia 
then,  in  search  of  new  presses  for  his  paper.  Penning 
was  comfortably  alone.  And  having  lighted  a  briar 
and  doffed  his  coat,  he  sat  for  a  long  while  and  con- 
templated his  fire. 

"She's  clever!"  he  was  obliged  to  admit.  "In  her 
way." 


CHAPTER  VII 

TILL  a  very  late  hour  that  night  Penning  sat 
and  mused  before  his  fire,  in  review  of  the 
case  of  Mrs,  Branstane. 

Was  she  an  essentially  vulgar  woman,  with  a  fatal 
touch  of  cleverness?  Or  was  she  a  truly  gifted  per- 
sonage, for  ever  fettered  to  an  element  of  vulgarity, 
and  never  to  be  free  of  it? 

In  either  case,  he  could  see,  was  inevitable  tragedy. 

After  all,  what  were  the  woman's  errors  and  out- 
breaks but  the  natural  rebellion  of  a  baffled  ambition? 
Certainly  she  must  have  seen  in  herself  very  nearly 
the  cleverest  woman  in  the  town.  Or  that,  with  the 
necessary  advantages,  supplied  at  the  right  time,  she 
might  have  been  such.  In  Mrs.  Branstane's  circum- 
stances, Penning  wondered,  would  he  himself  have 
been  content  with  a  revenge  so  gentle  upon  niggardly 
surroundings? 

And  he  had  urged  Mrs.  Branstane  to  surrender, 
to  renounce  everything,  and  leave! 

No  matter.  The  Mrs.  Branstane  he  had  to  deal 
with  was  the  Mrs.  Branstane  who  was,  not  the  not- 
able figure  who  might  have  been.  By  reason  of  his 
very  yielding  her  claims  to  existence,  she  was  to  be 
the  more  a  problem  in  his  career.  And  respect  her 
powers  how  he  might,  he  hated  her  the  more. 

He  loathed  her.  She  muddied  all  the  currents  of 
his  life.  And  yet,  how  was  he  to  compass  the  removal 
of  an  incubus  so  firmly  fixed? 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  303 

Meanwhile  there  was  his  new  work  in  the  Judge- 
ship, with  its  new  interests,  its  new  demands  upon 
his  time  and  mind.  And  his  gathering  interest  in 
Annabel  Gayland,  beautiful  as  a  merry  girl,  still  more 
admirable  now  in  the  new  trials  that  were  taking  her 
on  into  womanhood. 

Strongest  tug  of  all  upon  his  heart,  just  then,  was 
the  unhappy  situation  of  his  best  friend  Banks. 

The  more  so  because  it  was  next  to  impossible  to 
speak  of  the  thing.  In  the  old  candid  manner.  With 
a  little  candour  the  whole  Banks  imbroglio  might 
have  been  avoided.  The  Senator  had  kept  to  himself 
his  dealings  with  Landis,  and  so  had  got  into  his 
tangle  only  because  he  knew  his  venturesome  faith 
could  never  survive  the  scrutiny  of  an  eye  at  once 
friendly  and  expert. 

And  yet,  for  all  Penning  thought  he  could  mark  a 
physical  change  in  the  man,  the  Senator's  good  nature 
remained  what  it  was.  He  so  bravely  and  so  decep- 
tively bore  his  blunder  as  his  own. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  Banks  stiU  could  welcome 
Penning  when  he  called.  "Come  in,  old  fellow! 
Hang  your  hat  on  the  ceiling.  It  isn't  quite  so  roomy 
here.  But  Sallie  used  to  wish  we  lived  in  a  flat, 
where  she  needn't  be  worried  by  thieving  servants. 
And  now  you  've  got  your  wish,  haven't  you,  Sallie.^*" 
he  would  beam  upon  his  grim  and  unresponsive  wife. 
"Well,  never  you  mind,  dearest.  Never  —  you  — 
mind.  One  of  these  days  we  '11  be  back  in  the  old 
place  —  or  in  a  better  one  still.  I  have  to  remind 
her  over  and  over.  Pen,  that  I  'm  still  but  a  lad  of 
52,  with  my  future  all  before  me.  It 's  a  little  hard 
on  Sylvia,  though,  because — " 

"How  silly  of  you,  father!"    the  lovely  girl  would 


304  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

interrupt,  and  leap  upon  her  father's  chedr,  and  throw 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

"Because  she  can't  enterteiin  —  and  attract  —  her 
friends,  in  the  good  old  way.  But  that 's  all  right, 
Sylvia.  Soon  enough  you  '11  be  entertaining  more 
handsomely  than  ever  —  with  opera  singers  from 
New  York,  by  ginger!     Wait  and  seel" 

"Yesl"  Mrs.  Banks  would  comment  bitterly,  under 
her  breath.     "Wait  and  seel" 

All  his  life  the  company  of  Penning  had  been  a 
tonic  to  the  Senator,  and  so,  in  the  presence  of  his 
friend,  he  would  lick  up  his  spirits. 

"Let's  see,  Sylvia.  Where  was  I?"  he  would  run 
on,  but  spouting,  Penning  could  see,  only  to  keep  up 
his  courage.  "Oh,  yes!  We  've  got  the  house  rented. 
Pen.  At  a  pretty  fat  figure,  too.  That  is,  for  Ross- 
acre.  The  dear  departed  Landis  has  had  his  stuff 
shipped  to  Philadelphia,  and  the  new  railroad  super- 
intendent, Sayres,  has  taken  the  place  —  at  twelve- 
hundred  a  year.     I  guess  that'll  help  some,  what?" 

"Splendid!"  Penning  would  agree.  "But  I'm 
disappointed." 

"Why.»" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  buy  that  house  myself. 
Willing  to  pay  a  smart  sum  for  it,  too." 

"Oh,  but  I  've  got  to  hang  on  to  that  house!  Think 
how  it  ties  me  fast  to  my  future!  .  .  .  No;  as  long 
as  it 's  mine  I  can  walk  past  it  and  say  to  myself, 
'There's  your  goal.  Banks.'  It  will  spur  me  on, 
don't  you  see.**" 

"But  of  course  I  'd  sell  it  back  whenever  you 
wanted  it." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  And  the  Senator  would  lower  his 
eyes.     "That's  like  you.   Pen.     But  it's  got  to  be 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  305 

business  with  me,  through  and  through.  ...  I  '11  be 
pitching  into  you  soon  enough,  all  the  same.  You 
made  me,  once,  Pen.  Maybe  you  're  slated  to  do  it 
again.  Lord,  I  'd  never  have  got  anywhere  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you.  If  you  hadn't  beat  the  city  for  me  in 
that  gas  case  franchise.  Sallie  used  to  tease  me 
about  making  my  fortune  in  gas.  Didn't  you,  Sallie! 
But  that  was  my  reed  start,  just  the  same.  And  you 
did  it.  Pen.  I  '11  never  forget  it.  Weren't  they  some 
surprised,  when  you,  a  young  kid  out  of  Law  School, 
beat  aU  the  old  hands  here,  and  won  me  that  fran- 
chise! Funny,  for  a  chap  so  young  to  give  an  older 
man  like  me  his  real  start  in  business!" 

"But  you  gave  me  my  first  case,  Senator." 

"Well,  we  began  together,  you  might  say,  didn't 
we!" 

But  that  topic  always  reminded  the  Senator  of  his 
dearest  project  for  Sylvia.  Perhaps  it  reminded  Pen- 
ning also.     At  any  rate  he  hastened  to  add, 

"What  do  you  say,  Senator!  Let's  begin  together 
again!" 

"You're  on!     I'll  see  you  to-morrow!" 

And  the  Senator  did  "see"  Penning  the  very  next 
day  —  in  Court's  Chambers. 

He  stepped  in  mysteriously,  almost  on  tiptoe,  and 
drew  up  a  chair  beside  the  Judge's  desk. 

"Pen,"  he  began.  "I  beg  your  pardon!  Your 
Honour!    Let's  see  —  how  old  are  you?" 

"As  I  live!  Life-insurance!"  thought  Penning. 
And  such  was  the  Senator's  errand. 

Dutifully  Penning  put  himself  down  for  an  amount 
needlessly  large,  and  on  the  strength  of  his  order  he 
ventured  to  break  down  the  Senator's  reticence  on 
the  score  of  his  affairs. 


306  THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

In  vain  Penning  besought  Banks  to  some  com- 
promise with  his  creditors. 

"It  isn't  your  fault  if  Landis  has  fleeced  them!" 
he  counselled.  "Isn't  it  a  bit  Quixotic  to  take  the 
whole  burden  on  your  own  shoulders?" 

To  no  such  argument  would  the  Senator  -^listen. 

"Joshua  Banks  pays  his  debts  —  somehow." 

And  that  ended  it. 

Some  few  facts,  nevertheless,  the  Senator  did 
divulge  about  himself.  Never  had  he  been  so  rich 
as  Rossacre  liked  to  make  him  out.  Like  Gayland 
he  had  been  hugely  overrated. 

"The  town's  got  to  have  rich  men  to  brag  about, 
you  know.     People  gossip  us  into  wealth." 

For  the  time  being  he  was  fumbling  about  till  he 
could  hit  upon  some  new  field  of  business  venture 
and  start  afresh.  Until  he  could  find  what  he  liked 
he  had  taken  up  insurance,  which  he  expected  to  go 
famously  while  his  supply  of  good  friends  held  out  I 

"How  about  a  political  job-i^"    Penning  queried. 

"Nothing  doing.  It  was  different  when  I  was  in 
office  and  had  money.  A  strong  man  can  get  any- 
thing, a  weak  man  nothing.  I  know.  I  worked  on 
that  principle  myself!"  the  Senator  laughed  ruefully, 
and  mused  a  moment.  "I  see  things  differently 
now.  .  .  .  But  never  you  worry.  Old  Josh  Banks  '11 
get  going  again,  never  fear.  Stronger  than  ever. 
You  can't  keep  a  good  man  down,  ha,  ha!  Sallie 
scolds  me,  a  little.  Says  it  was  nothing  but  stub- 
bornness that  got  me  into  this  pickle.  If  only  I  'd 
listened  to  you,  or  to  her,  or  even  to  little  Sherry  — 
who  's  a  brick,  by  the  way!  Wants  to  lend  me  money. 
Only,  of  course,  I  can't  accept  it.  Because  it 's  my 
own  fault,  I  know.    I  did  have  faith  in  Landis.    Gave 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  307 

him  his  start  in  life,  you  know.  .  .  .  Probably  it  was 
stubbornness.  All  right.  So  be  it.  It 's  the  stub- 
bornness in  me  that 's  going  to  set  me  going  again. 
Sylvia  herself 's  going  to  help  me.  She  thinks  it 's 
going  to  be  such  a  lark.  But  now  then,  young  manl" 
the  Senator  abruptly  broke  off.  "It's  your  turn  on 
the  anxious  seat." 

The  Senator  drew  up  his  chair  a  little  nearer  to 
Penning,  and  glanced  about  the  empty  room  in  a 
precautionary  manner. 

"Tell  me  frankly,  as  man  to  man — as  an  old 
friend — "he  whispered  that  —  "isn't  there  a  little 
something  worrying  you.*^  Seems  to  me  you  're  not 
quite  as  usual,  yourself.  Knowing  you  so  well,  I 
notice  these  things,  you  see.  But  isn't  —  isn't  some- 
thing bothering  you.^^     Some  trouble  of  your  own?" 

Penning  administered  a  quick  slap  to  the  Senator's 
fat  knee. 

"Banks,  you  're  a  brick!  I  was  rotten  on  the  bench, 
my  first  time  out.  And  you  want  to  scold  me  for  it. 
In  your  nice,  roundabout  way.  .  .  .  Well,  you  're  right. 
I  was  rotten.    And  —  and  I  have  been  a  little  cut  up  —  " 

"About  me,  I  '11  lay  you  a  fiver!  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me!" 

"We-ell,  ye-es.  About  Gayland,  too.  Quite  a 
racket  in  the  town,  all  at  once.  But  —  I  promise 
you  I  '11  behave  better  next  term  of  court.     You  see!" 

They  chaffed  each  other  a  little  while  longer,  and 
then  the  Senator  left. 

When  he  had  gone  Penning  strode  to  one  of  the 
windows  and  studied  the  naked  little  square  outside 
with  a  curious  interest. 

"The  insurance  was  only  a  pretense.  He  came  here 
expressly  to  tell  me  that!"    he  thought  to  himself. 


308  THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Was  it  so  clear,  then  —  clear  to  the  whole  town  — 
that  he  had  fallen  off?  Was  his  work  so  far  as  that 
beneath  expectation? 

The  absurdity  of  his  situation  kept  Penning  musing 
some  while  at  the  window. 

And  he  was  only  aroused  from  his  reverie  at  the 
entrance  of  Mrs.  Branstane. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PENNING  was  a  figure  of  amazement  as  she 
entered.  She  had  donned  something  comform- 
able  to  the  mode.  Something  in  advance  of 
the  moment  in  Rossacre.  Vogue  has  commended 
worse  habilaments.  She  was  smart.  Smart  from  her 
trim  grey  boots  to  her  furs  and  the  saucy  furry  toque 
perched  upon  her  neatly  waved  hair.  And  she  was 
handsome.     Offensively,   aggressively,   handsome. 

Handsome  by  reason  of  something  other  than 
clothing.  She  glowed.  And  yet  there  seemed  to  be 
a  strange  timidity  in  her  manner. 

Because  —  on  the  occasion  of  Penning's  last  dinner 
engagement  with  them,  when  he  was  so  curiously 
impressed  by  Mrs.  Branstane,  Mrs.  Branstane  had 
been  as  curiously  impressed  by  Judge  Penning. 

She  too,  when  the  Gayland  ladies  had  retired,  and 
when  she  herself  had  locked  the  silver  in  the  safe 
and  made  the  windows  secure,  drew  up  a  chair  be- 
fore the  glowing  hearth  in  her  own  room  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  and  sat  staring  into  it  till  very  late, 
with  a  somnolent  cat  on  her  lap. 

As  the  small  French  clock  on  her  bureau  struck 
two  she  pushed  the  cat  from  her  lap,  and  looked  at 
the  empty  hands  that  lay  there,  and  said  to  herself, 

"No.     He  —  he  hates  me." 

Still  the  hearth  had  a  few  expiring  flickers  left, 
and  with  a  kind  of  grim  satisfaction  Mrs.  Branstane 
watched  them  die. 


310  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Then  she  rose,  and  slowly  kicked  off  her  pumps. 
And  again  her  thoughts  worked  to  the  surface  in 
speech. 

"No.     He  hates  me." 

And  she  set  out  across  the  floor,  in  her  unshod  feet, 
in  a  noiseless,  nervous  pacing,  up  and  down,  up  and 
down  her  room.  The  cat,  awakened  rudely,  and 
hiding  in  a  corner,  watched  her  with  misgivings.  For 
some  minutes  Mrs.  Branstane  paced. 

And  then  abruptly  stopped,  and  placed  her  hands 
upon  her  hips,  and  said  to  herself,  aloud,  "No.  He 
only  hates  me.     And  .  .  .  and  well  he  mayl" 

There  a  strange  thing  happened.  Being  near  the 
bed  Mrs.  Branstane  flung  herself  across  it.  And 
burst  into  sobs. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  moaned,  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  "Why  am  I  like  thisl  .  .  .  Why  does 
it  always  turn  out  this  way!"  .  .  . 

For  an  hour  longer  she  tossed  about  on  her  bed,  in 
a  passion  of  tears. 

And  perhaps  with  good  reason. 

Not  in  vain  had  she  absorbed  the  charm  of  their 
evening  together.  Penning  and  Annabel  and  Mrs. 
Gayland  and  herself.  There,  about  the  dinner-table 
and  about  the  fire  in  the  hall.  Yet  "things"  had 
always  turned  against  Mrs.  Branstane,  somehow. 
And  so  she  might  weep. 

From  that  evening  on  Mrs.  Branstane  did  make 
some  effort  to  grip  herself.  With  the  effect  of  shock- 
ing Mrs.  Gayland  almost  out  of  her  wits,  so  un- 
accustomed was  that  lady  to  the  phenomenon  of 
good-nature  in  her  crusty  handmaiden.  And  she 
almost  expired  of  apprehension  when  Mrs.  Branstane 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  311 

even  asked  her  advice  on  the  purchase  of  a  new 
gown. 

Toward  Penning  a  thousand  new  impulses  urged 
Mrs.  Branstane  now.  A  dozen  times  a  day  she  set 
out  to  see  him,  and  a  dozen  times  drew  back.  Mrs. 
Branstane  needed  an  audience.  It  was  the  need  of 
an  audience  that  had  sent  her,  in  the  first  place,  to 
Penning  when  Gayland's  illness  had  deprived  her  of 
the  old  one.  This  new  audience  she  had  found  in- 
telligent and  tractable  beyond  her  dreams.  And  it 
was  an  audience  at  last  worth  her  while.  It  seemed 
to  Mrs.  Branstane  that  the  more  intelligent  the 
audience  the  more  she  had  to  display.  So  Penning 
flattered  her,  and  so  the  more  she  craved  his  flattery. 
For  that  she  loved  him.     The  dear,  desirable  man! 

Such  was  the  comedy  played  by  these  two  persons 
—  Mrs.  Branstane  trailing  Penning,  and  Penning 
whetting  all  his  knives  for  Mrs.  Branstane. 

Meanwhile  the  good  people  of  Bossacre  lived  on. 
The  trout  season  opened,  and  likewise  the  season  of 
golf,  with  insidious  invitations  to  the  manhood  of 
Bossacre.  Twice  Mrs.  Branstane  attempted  a  call 
upon  Penning  in  Court's  Chambers,  only  to  encounter 
a  discouraging  crowd  of  lawyers  gathered  there. 
With  what  reason  she  could  she  excused  her  intrusion, 
and  withdrew. 

The  round  of  Spring  teas  was  on,  moreover,  and 
recruited  the  dear  ladies  in  gossip. 

One  of  these  teas,  of  a  strongly  missionary  charac- 
ter, at  the  resplendent  new  home  of  Mrs.  Bemis, 
Miss  Gayland  thought  it  a  duty  if  not  a  pleasure  to 
attend.  And  in  the  true  missionary  spirit  she  took 
with  her  Mrs.  Branstane  —  and  so  became  more  than 
ever  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Fate. 


312  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

At  Mrs.  Bemis's  tea  Mrs.  Branstane  fell  in  with 
all  the  amateur  aristocrats  of  Rossacre,  people  in  the 
second  line  of  wealth,  and  breeding,  and  travel; 
the  sort  that  Sherry  Brookes  had  once,  and  finally, 
characterised  as  the  ten-thousand-dollar  millionaires  — 
all  of  them  making  the  same  use  of  the  occasion  as 
fell  to  Mrs.  Branstane.  Here  they  might  foregather, 
on  an  almost  equal  footing,  with  the  very  great  ladies 
of  Rossacre,  the  hated  angels  who  really  dictated  the 
tenantry  of  the  social  heaven  of  the  town  —  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  Mrs.  Wyeth,  and  Miss  Warren,  and  the 
rest.  And  among  the  malcontents  and  aspirants  Mrs. 
Branstane  was  at  once  ingratiate. 

Cleverer  than  Mrs.  Bemis,  or  Mrs.  Travis,  or  any 
of  them,  there  was  not  one  among  the  number  whose 
pedigree  or  fortune  Mrs.  Branstane  could  not  trace 
back  to  something  inconvenient,  to  say  the  least. 
And  they  were  all  charmed  and  grateful  for  her  tact 
in  forbearing  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Branstane  sparkled,  but 
took  pains  to  surpass  nobody  else.  Dispensing  all 
manner  of  cutting  remarks,  she  nevertheless  pointed 
them  carefully  at  absentees  who,  she  was  quick  to 
perceive,  were  the  least  favoured  by  those  present. 

"Why,  she  seems  just  like  one  of  us!"  they  all 
agreed,  when  she  was  gone.  "You  should  hear  her 
tell  of  Mrs.  Gayland's  stupidities!  And  as  for  the 
Judge  and  his  bluffing,  it 's  no  wonder  he  's  where 
he  is!"  And  soon  they  were  all  copying  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane's  very  tricks  of  speech  and  of  manner. 

Mrs.  Bemis  having  safely  experimented  with  her, 
still  others  of  the  same  group  took  her  up.  Mrs. 
Cloud  asked  her  to  a  tea,  and  at  length  no  less  a 
person  than  Mrs.  Brantley  sent  her  a  card  to  a  bridge. 

Among  these  people  Mrs.  Branstane  learned  quickly 


THE  END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  313 

enough  how  to  get  on.  She  subscribed  to  their 
charities,  she  visited  their  sick  wards.  In  a  word, 
such  was  her  smooth  and  rapid  progress  up  the  social 
pathway,  that  at  length  she  found  herself  a  guest 
at  the  Brantleys'  reception,  the  very  final  function 
of  the  season.  There,  it  happened,  rounding  a  door- 
way of  a  sudden,  she  came  into  collision  with  no  less 
a  personage  than  Senator  Banks. 

"Murder!"  the  Senator  gasped,  when  it  happened. 
"What  are  you  doing  here!"  he  asked,  very  candidly. 

Mrs.  Branstane  passed  him  with  her  head  in  the 
air,  and  later  a  terrible  revenge  fell  in  her  way.  A 
crowd  had  gathered  about  the  Senator,  in  respect  of 
his  remarks  about  experiences  of  his  in  climbing  the 
Alps. 

Watching  her  opportunity  Mrs.  Branstane  sweetly 
observed,  "But  then,  Senator,  you've  always  been 
so  used  to  the  high  places?" 

This  delicate  allusion  to  the  time  when  Joshua 
Banks  laid  finial  bricks  on  Bossacre  chimneys  silenced 
him  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  and  was 
afterward  widely  quoted. 

Others,  who  thoughtlessly  combated  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane, learned  also  to  respect  the  perils  of  her  mem- 
ory. Still,  while  it  lasted,  it  gave  Mrs.  Branstane  at 
least  the  success  of  the  hangman. 

Now  and  again  at  these  social  gatherings  Judge 
Penning  encountered  Mrs.  Branstane,  though  his 
surprise  at  the  first  of  them  almost  resulted  in  apo- 
plexy. Finally  Annabel  Gayland  organized  a  tea  of 
her  own,  especially  to  enable  Mrs.  Branstane  to  repay 
a  few  of  these  many  obligations.  And  Judge  Penning 
condescended  to  be  present,  though  he  contrived  to 
arrive  very  late. 


314  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

Mrs.  Branstane,  now  affable  to  all,  and  fairly 
beaming  toward  Penning,  felt  reasonably  sure  that 
she  was  impressing  him.  Certainly  he  gave  no  sign 
to  the  contrary.  Surely  he  must  be  ready  now  to 
acknowledge  that  she  was  a  personage. 

So  always  when  Penning  called  on  Annabel,  Mrs. 
Branstane  saw  to  it  that  she  too  was  nigh.  Duly 
she  made  her  appointed  remarks,  when  occasion 
offered  —  and  yet  said  little,  in  the  main,  her  past 
mistakes  with  Penning  had  made  her  so  timorous. 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  carefully  feeling  her  way. 

Penning,  poor  fool,  was  amusing  himself  with  the 
notion  that  he  was  biding  his  time,  that  he  was  toying 
with  the  dragon,  till  the  right  moment  to  pounce  and 
finish  her  off. 

Since  he  might  not  suddenly  open  Annabel's  eyes 
to  the  dangers  of  her  new  friend,  he  would  trust  to 
Time  to  open  them. 

That  entire  April  Penning  left  Annabel's  eyes  in 
the  care  of  Time.  For  him  it  was  a  season  of  busy 
professional  preoccupation.  The  March  term  of  court 
was  past,  and  the  May  term  yet  to  come,  yet  there 
were  sundry  court  orders  to  hand  down,  there  were 
conferences  with  counsel,  petitions  for  new  bridges  to 
consider,  and  a  thousand  and  one  small  affairs  of  the 
County  to  be  weighed. 

In  the  thick  of  all  this  business  Mrs.  Branstane 
attempted  several  visitations,  without  success  until 
the  last  one. 

"It  isn't  likely,"  she  was  saying  then,  meaning  to 
be  arch,  and  so  to  add  to  the  fetching  effect  of  her 
physical  appearance,  "it  isn't  likely  that  you  —  ah  — 
desire  a  receipt  for  this.>^" 

As  she  spoke  she  was  folding  a  roll  of  bank-notes 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  315 

into  her  neat  patent-leather  bag,  along  with  a  new 
bill  from  the  grocer,  and  the  tax  account  on  the 
Gayland  property. 

Judge  Penning's  taste  for  humour  happened  to  be 
inert  at  the  moment,  as  well  as  his  patience. 

"Yes,  I  want  a  receipt!"  he  blurted.  "For  busi- 
ness reasons,  and  for  personal  reasons,  I  want  a 
receipt.  In  due  form.  For  that  loan.  You  don't 
come  here  in  magnificent  philanthropy  for  the  Gay- 
land  ladies.  I  don't  know  —  God  only  knows  —  why 
you  come  here.  Personally,  I  haven't  the  time  to 
puzzle  it  out.  But  I  want  to  know  exactly  what  is 
done  with  the  money." 

Mrs.  Branstane's  thoughts,  as  she  heard  this,  spoke 
chiefly  in  the  rising  flush  of  her  cheeks.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  looked  at  him,  this  original  Penning  that 
again  stepped  forth  just  when  everything  had  been 
going  so  nicely. 

"You  get  off  cheap,  young  man!"  she  began, 
slowly.  "You  big  politicians  have  a  slick  way  of 
setting  fools  to  work  for  you.  You  flatter  them  — 
and  get  out  of  them  whatever  you  want  —  and  then 
toss  them  aside." 

In  spite  of  all  her  noble  resolutions  toward  good 
nature,  Mrs.  Branstane  feared  she  was  growing  angry 
again.     Nevertheless,  she  tried  to  be  ceJm. 

"I  suppose  you  thought  you'd  work  me,  didn't 
you?"  she  drawled  on.  "You  took  thought  and 
decided  to  treat  me  as  a  lady,  till  I  had  paid  nearly 
all  of  Gayland's  debts.  Then  you  could  step  in  and 
say  'ta,  ta!'  to  me,  eh.^  .  .  .  Well,  I  'm  not  to  be 
duped  that  way!" 

"Duped!"  Penning  leaped  from  the  chair  at  his 
desk.     "My  patience!     As  if  it  were  you  who  were 


316  THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT 

duped!  This  has  gone  on  far  enough.  Busy  as  I  am  I 
have  fiddled  and  fooled  with  you  long  enough.  I  give 
you  three  seconds  to  get  out  of  this  room,  and  three 
days  to  get  out  of  this  town.  Out  with  you!  Take 
your  dragon  mind  with  you!     Do  your  worst!     Go!" 

Penning  even  pointed  an  obliging  finger  toward  the 
door. 

Mrs.  Branstane  sat  where  she  sat  before.  She 
laughed  quietly,  indulgently.  She  enjoyed  this  sort 
of  thing. 

"Oh,  you're  clever!"  Penning  granted.  "You 
know  I  won't  brain  you.  But,  good  God,  don't  you 
know  when  you're  insulted.*^" 

He  thumped  over  to  the  heavy  door  opening  on 
the  corridor,  and  swung  it  open. 

While  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed.  Seeing  that  the 
door  was  open  she  spoke  a  trifle  the  more  loudly, 
for  any  chance  passerby  outside  to  overhear. 

"'Dragon  mind.'  .  .  .  'Do  your  worst.'  .  .  .  Isn't 
your  breeding  deserting  you,   Mr.  Penning?" 

Mrs.  Branstane's  temper  was  rising,  in  spite  of  her, 
beginning  to  spur  her  tongue.  "Those  are  not  nice 
words,  Mr.  Penning  —  'dragon  mind,'  and  all  the 
rest.     0-oh — " 

She  held  up  a  staying  hand  as  Penning  essayed 
speech. 

"Annabel  Gayland  said  to  me  only  yesterday,  as 
I  kissed  her  good  bye,  'Auntie,  do  you  know,  I 
haven't  asked  your  permission  yet,  have  I?'  She  had 
dreamed  of  you,  she  told  me.  'Do  you  like  him, 
Auntie.'^     Do  you  approve  of  him?'  — " 

"You  —  go!  Or  I  shan't  answer  for  the  conse- 
quences!"    Penning  cut  in. 

He  was  walking  toward  her. 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  317 

Mrs.  Branstane  only  rose  from  her  chair  and 
stepped  forward  to  meet  him.  And  looking  him  full 
in  the  eye  she  said  to  him  softly, 

"Don't  be  foolish,  young  man.  You  are  fast  in 
a  turn  of  affairs  that  I  happen  to  have  mastered. 
You  know  well  enough  that  I  can  tell  things  to  those 
two  doves  about  Judge  Gay  land  that  would  level 
them  to  the  dust." 

"Well,  then,  damn  you,  go  mention  them!" 

In  precipitate  disgust  Penning  tore  away  from  this 
festering  presence. 

"You  fool!"  Mrs.  Branstane  tried  another  tack. 
"To  have  done  all  you  've  done,  for  that  squirt  of  a 
girl!  What  can  a  man  like  you  want  with  such  a 
millstone  round  his  neck!  That 's  what  you  are 
thinking,  yourself,  this  very  minute!  Do  you  know 
what  she  said  to  me  this  very  afternoon,  when  I 
started  away.»^  Her  mother  was  worse  again,  and 
Annabel  was  worked  up  over  it.  She  threw  her  arms 
about  my  neck  and  sobbed"  — and  again  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane's  mimicry  was  cruelly  exact  —  "'Oh,  Auntie 
dear,  you  've  been  so  good  to  us!  We  never  can  do 
without  you!  Why,  when  I  'm  married,  you  've  got 
to  come  and  keep  house  for  me!  The  world  couldn't 
run  on  without  you!'" 

In  the  quotation  Penning  could  recognise  only  too 
clearly  the  perverseness  of  Annabel. 

"And  yet,  Mr.  Penning,  you  order  me  to  clear 
out!"  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed.  "You  who  are  not 
nearly  so  strong  up  there  as  I  am!  .  .  .  And  I  don't 
believe  you  want  to  be,  now.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  know 
as  I  blame  you!" 

Though  Penning  boiled  to  say  something,  Mrs. 
Branstane  fairly  shouted  him  down. 


318  THE   END    OF   THE   FLIGHT 

"Housekeeper?  Me  that  girl's  housekeeper?  She  '11 
be  mine,  before  then!     The  twittering  canary!" 

"Great  God!"    Penning  whipped  in. 

"Aha-a-a!  You  wonder  at  me,  do  you?  Oh,  you 
can't  shame  me  now!" 

There  was  a  genuine  catch  in  Mrs.  Branstane's 
voice  as  she  said  that  —  and  realised  where  her 
tongue  had  carried  her  again. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  I  am!"  she  blundered  on, 
seeking  to  retrieve  her  lost  position.  "I  'm  a  failure, 
and  I  know  it."  Here  she  turned  upon  him  fiercely. 
"But  why  shouldn't  my  failure  be  borne  by  those 
that  have  made  it!"  .  .  . 

Penning,  moved  restlessly  about  by  his  fiery  irri- 
tation, had  moved  slightly  behind  her  when  that 
bolt  stopped  him  still.  And  from  his  momentary 
silence  Mrs.  Branstane  knew  she  had  arrested  him 
again. 

"Oh,  yes,  hell!"  he  said.  "But  if  it's  such  a 
pain  to  be  where  you  are,  Mrs.  Branstane,  for  God's 
sake  why  don't  you  leave?  That 's  the  only  way  to 
simplify  things.  I  don't  say  leave  Rossacre.  But 
leave  the  Gayland  house  and  set  up  for  yourself. 
That 's  the  only  sensible  course." 

No  answer  from  Mrs.  Branstane. 

"Can't  you  do  that?" 

A  shake  of  her  head. 

"Why  can't  you  do  that?" 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  upon  him. 

"You  fiend!  You  fool!  I  come  here  —  Oh,  I  don't 
mean  that,  I  don't  mean  that!  Forgive  me!  I  'm  a 
brute!  ...  But  I  come  here  —  I  want  sympathy,  I 
want  to  be  treated  like  a  human  being,  I  want  — 
Oh! — "     She  gestured  her  impotence  in  words.     Tried 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  319 

to  glare  some  comprehension  into  him.  She  wanted 
to  rush  upon  this  simpleton  and  seize  him  bodily. 

And  caught  her  breath,  to  save  herself  from  saying 
anything  of  the  like. 

"I  see,"  Penning  was  saying,  in  irony.  "The 
question  is,  not  can  you  go,  but  will  you  go.^  That 's 
it,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  'is  it'!  And  I  wont  go.  Here's  where  I 
am,  here  's  where  I  stay!     That 's  all." 

And  out  of  her  purse  Mrs.  Branstane  ripped  the 
money  she  had  just  received  from  Penning,  and  the 
bills  it  was  to  pay,  and  threw  the  cluster  into  his  face; 
and  bustling  past  him  out  the  door  she  left  him  stand- 
ing there,  loathing  her  the  more  as  she  puzzled  him 
the  more. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BEGINNING  with  that  afternoon  Penning  let 
it  be  known,  to  whomsoever  it  might  con- 
cern, that  he  was  a  desperately  irritated 
man.  Even  Miss  Annabel  Gayland  was  not  spared 
the  knowledge. 

Rather  a  momentous  day  in  her  life,  when  she  made 
that  discovery. 

All  unconscious,  she  had  been  bubbling  her  gaieties 
to  him  when  he  came  to  their  house.  She  sang  him 
songs  all  the  way  from  Schubert  to  Strauss  and  Wolff 
—  and  sang  them  very  well,  if  you  please,  with  a  new 
catch  in  her  voice,  implanted  there  by  recent  experi- 
ence of  life.  She  played  him  Debussy,  in  her  talented 
manner,  and  other  new  things,  and  Beethoven  and 
the  old  things  —  with  that  "Consolation,"  midway, 
which  Senator  Banks  thought  was  by  Schlitz. 

In  a  word  Annabel  performed  for  him  every 
ministration,  every  sweet  service  save  that  one  which 
Penning  desired  above  aU  others  —  the  compendious 
dismissal  of  Mrs.  Branstane.  Did  Penning  call,  with 
his  eager  zest  for  new  accomplishment,  to  talk  over 
his  work  with  his  one  sympathetic  listener,  or  think 
to  read  a  new  sonnet  by  Masefield  or  Mahlon  Fisher, 
or  some  scrap  of  critical  lore  from  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite  or  Edward  O'Brien  —  Mrs.  Branstane's 
willing  arm  had  always  to  be  about  dear  Nabbie's 
neck.  Always  Mrs.  Branstane  had  also  to  be  basking 
in  the  eternal  sunshine  which  was  Annabel. 


THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT  321 

Of  all  this  the  upshot  was  that  the  Hon.  Andrew 
began  to  be  subject  to  fits  of  extreme  and  mysterious 
abstraction,  which  Annabel  was  left  to  interpret  as 
she  could  and  pleased. 

"That  hideous  Judgeship!"  she  would  exclaim. 
"Penning,  what  do  they  do  to  you  at  the  Court  House 
that  grinds  the  life  out  of  you  like  this  I  Here  you 
are,  going  the  same  way  as  father.  You  come  here 
at  the  end  of  your  day  so  tired,  and  bored  and  woe- 
begone!" 

And  Penning  could  only  laugh  lightly  —  for  he  too 
was  stubborn,  now,  in  his  own  way. 

If  a  wiser  suspicion  ever  dawned  upon  Annabel  — 
that  he  might  be  a  bit  jealous  still  of  her  champion- 
ship of  Auntie  Bran —  who  had  done  so  much  more 
for  them  than  he  had  ever  done,  by  the  way !  —  why 
he  might  get  over  that  as  he  chose.  Penning  might  as 
well  know  at  once  that  Annabel  was  not  quite  a  wisp 
of  straw.  She  was  entitled  to  her  own  opinions  of 
people.  She  too  was  somebody,  as  she  would  have 
frankly  told  him,  if  he  had  been  as  frank  himself. 
Since  he  pleased  not  to  be  frank,  she  trusted  him  to 
swing  into  good  humour  again  when  it  suited  his 
lordly  fancy  to  do  so.  If  he  meant  to  be  nasty  to 
Auntie  Bran,  she  meant  to  be  only  the  nicer.  That 
was  all. 

Meanwhile,  still  like  a  good  daughter  of  Eve,  she 
plied  him  with  what  soothing  she  thought  he  required. 

Naturally  the  wrong  kind. 

She  thought  of  new  drives  for  them,  over  the  hills. 
Thought  of  a  hundred  new  amusements.  Finally,  as 
the  weather  opened,  it  occurred  to  Annabel  that 
Penning  should  play  some  tennis  with  her,  on  the 
court  behind  the  house,  that  it  had  just  broken  old 


322  THE   END   OF  THE   FLIGHT 

Berkeley's  back  to  cut  and  roll  and  mark  and  get  in 
order. 

"You  haven't  had  a  lick  of  exercise  in  weeks!" 
she  scolded.  "There!  I'm  glad  that's  settled,"  she 
sighed  as  she  finished  with  him  that  evening  —  and 
so  created  the  little  occasion  that  proved  to  be 
momentous  for  them  both. 

Dutifully  Judge  Penning  stole  that  appointed  after- 
noon from  his  duties,  as  he  was  commanded  to  do. 
And  lawn  tennis  they  sallied  forth  to  play,  all  in 
festive  flannels  and  blazers.  Rather  a  good  hand  at 
the  game  Penning  had  been  in  Harvard  —  won  the 
college  championship  on  one  occasion. 

But  it  is  a  significant  fact  that  Auntie  Bran  also 
sallied  forth  to  the  tennis  court  with  them.  And 
Annabel,  who  was  moved  to  be  gay  —  for  the  after- 
noon invited  the  mood,  with  its  early  birds  and  the 
first  soft  breezes  of  early  summer  among  Annabel's 
tawny  tresses,  which  they  most  notably  and  be- 
witchingly  tossed  —  Annabel  took  the  notion  into 
her  pretty  head,  perhaps  a  little  maliciously,  that  she 
should  first  have  an  educational  set  with  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane,  with  the  skilled  Penning  seated  nigh  to  coach 
this  promising  pupil. 

"She's  got  to  learn  this  business,  you  know  very 
well,  Pen.  And  you  're  to  watch  her  up  and  see  that 
she  gets  on.  Now,  then.  Auntie,  blaze  away!  This 
is  the  way  you  do  it.     Watch  me." 

And  bless  us  if  they  didn't  fall  to,  with  Penning 
stranded  on  the  rustic  bench  by  the  side  of  the  court 
designed,  very  properly,  for  the  relief  of  the  weary. 

When,  finally,  Annabel  condescended  to  take  him  on, 
why,  somehow,  the  net  had  sagged,  possibly  because 
Mrs.  Branstane  had  leaned  against  it  in  the  eagerness 


THE   END   OF   THE   FLIGHT  323 

of  her  learning.  And  the  court  turned  out  to  be 
indifferently  rolled  after  all  —  no  better  than  a 
plowed  field,  it  seemed  to  Penning.  And  Annabel, 
wearied  now  with  the  first  games  of  the  season, 
played  wretchedly  out  of  form.  Penning,  smarting 
with  a  hundred  small  annoyances,  played  even  worse. 
Every  ball  that  left  his  bat  was  sent  by  Fate  into 
the  net,  or  out  of  court.  Even  his  respectable  service 
went  wrong  half  the  time. 

And  as  if  all  this  were  not  enough  to  try  a  patience 
already  unduly  strained,  Annabel  persisted  in  the 
barbarity  of  conversation.  Raising  her  arm  to  serve 
she  would  lower  it  to  say, 

"Oh,  by  the  way.  Pen,  did  you  know  that  Jack 
Keating  and  Madge  Brantley  are  engaged?  And 
what  do  you  think!  Isabel  Warren  has  a  steady! 
Yep!     A  new  chap  from  New  York."  .  .  . 

Every  smallest  function  in  life  that  afternoon 
seemed  to  have  been  fashioned  into  a  thorn  for  the 
tender  feelings  of  brother  Penning.  And  the  inevitable 
did  what  the  inevitable  always  does. 

It  happened. 

They  had  a  dispute,  he  and  Annabel,  over  the  score. 
At  any  other  time  Penning  would  have  been  amused 
at  the  girl's  perversity,  and  left  it  to  the  morrow  to 
bring  melting  conviction  of  error.  But  for  once  in  his 
life  Penning  was  minded  to  have  his  own  way  —  even 
on  the  microscopic  point  of  a  misunderstanding  of  the 
score  in  a  game  of  lawn  tennis.  Then  and  there  that 
injured  being  stood  his  ground  and  insultingly  proved 
himself  to  be  right. 

"A-all  right.  Pen!"  Annabel  carolled  her  sub- 
mission, and  only  sheepishly  gestured  apology  for 
her  blunder.     And  they  went  on  with  the  game. 


324  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

But  for  the  first  time  in  their  acquaintance  Penning 
had  actually,  and  unmistakably,  and  deliberately, 
wounded  Annabel. 

He  knew  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  be  sending 
her  penitential  roses;  but  he  could  speak  no  peni- 
tential roses  then.  Rather  he  behaved  very  stiffly 
and  took  himself  away  earlier  than  he  had  intended 
—  "to  meet  a  business  appointment." 

Annabel  also  retired  that  evening  a  bit  earlier  than 
usual,  incensed  at  Penning,  and  carrying  herself  too 
a  bit  stiffly. 

And  was  vaguely  worried,  nevertheless.  For  in  that 
ever  so  slight  friction  between  them  she  thought  she 
descried  the  thin  fine  line  of  a  cleavage.  Large  con- 
sequences may  follow  small  occurrences.  So  thinks 
youth.  They  may  escape  the  eye,  but  never  the 
youthful  heart. 

As  usual,  after  that,  JPenning  and  Annabel  drove 
about  over  the  country,  now  beginning  to  be  ravish- 
ingly  beautiful  in  its  early  summer  garb.  They 
played  golf,  too,  and  called  on  friends  in  the  evening, 
and  went  to  the  teas  and  dances  at  the  Country  Club, 
and  otherwise  behaved  as  two  people  in  entire  accord. 
Yet  always  Penning  discovered  himself  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  young  lady  who,  always  a  bit  shy  in  the 
presence  of  his  mightier  intellect,  was  now  more  shy 
than  ever,  and  hesitant,  before  him.  At  home  she 
chattered  a  little  the  less  to  him,  was  at  a  loss  for 
topics  of  chatter. 

So  multiplied  the  small  hurts  which  these  two 
precious  idiots  imparted  to  each  other.  In  some 
fashion  Penning's  own  clever  speeches,  his  pretty 
compliments  to  Annabel,  his  epigrammatic  comment 
on  life  and  on  people,   all  the  sparks  that  Annabel 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  325 

had  been  wont  to  strike  from  him,  came  grudgingly 
and  stiffly  now. 

In  Court's  Chambers  too  Penning  began  to  puzzle 
the  lawyers  with  his  fits  of  temper  and  sarcasm. 

All  the  handiwork  of  Mrs.  Branstane,  of  course. 

What  Midas  touched  was  merely  gold.  What  Mrs. 
Branstane  touched  was  uproar.  And  by  no  means 
had  she  exhausted  her  magic  in  that  line,  either. 

After  that  indifferent,  and  to  himself  disappointing, 
March  term  of  court.  Penning  had  sworn  by  the 
Great  Horn  Spoon  that  at  the  next  term  his  towns- 
people should  witness  a  markedly  different  sample  of 
his  powers  as  a  jurist.  When  the  May  term  should 
arrive,  he  would  show  them  what  a  Judge  can  be. 

Yet  a  Judge  must  bring  to  his  labours  an  inex- 
haustible patience.  With  an  unwearied  interest  and 
attention  he  must  pursue  every  turn  in  the  sometimes 
painfully  trivial  disputes  that  are  heatedly  and 
laboriously  threshed  out  under  his  guidance.  And  that 
patience,  when  the  May  term  arrived.  Judge  Penning 
had  not  at  his  command. 

From  the  very  first  day  things  went  ill. 

A  Judge  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  an  impersonal 
machine,  automatically  registering  between  right  and 
wrong,  as  the  issues  are  presented,  no  matter  how 
clever,  how  stupid,  the  pleading.  All  the  honest 
blazes  of  a  personal  indignation  are  denied  him.  All 
too  often  he  must  sit  aloof  and  watch  a  legal  wrong 
defeat  a  moral  right,  before  his  very  eyes,  with  thought 
of  nothing  but  the  letter  of  the  law. 

One  such  clash  was  early  on  the  docket  —  a  rehc 
of  the  late  but  not  tearfully  lamented  Landis.  That 
prosperous  citizen,  it  seemed,  had  advised  the  trustee 
of  an  estate  to  sell  the  option  on  a  property  at  a 


326  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

certain  sum.  Ten  days  after  the  advice  was  taken 
and  the  option  sold,  the  trustee  had  half  a  dozen 
fancy  offers,  and  the  purchaser  had  sold  at  a  profit  of 
$10,000,  after  a  liberal  sharing  with  Landis.  Against 
Liandis  there  was  absolutely  no  hard-and-fast  proof, 
and  yet  he  was  clearly  at  variance  with  the  legal  and 
the  moral  law. 

During  all  this  business,  as  a  Judge  will,  Penning 
was  taking  notes.  But  they  were  not  notes  for  a 
judicial  decision,  nor  for  a  charge  to  the  jury.  Under 
the  temptation  to  expose  such  wrongs  he  was  quoting 
that  brilliant  journalist,  Franklin  Clarkin, — 

"Fiction  is  the  only  place  left  where  a  man  can  tell 
the  truth." 

During  a  squabble  over  a  petty  money  affair,  he 
jotted  down — 

"If  you  want  to  see  a  man  with  the  eye  of  God, 
borrow  or  lend  with  him." 

In  the  thick  of  a  case  brought  by  the  trustees  of 
the  hospital,  perfectly  willing  to  welcome  poor  patients 
to  the  public  ward,  or  to  sell  private  attention  to  the 
well-to-do,  but  seeking  to  collect  by  law  for  treatment 
to  the  wife  of  a  salaried  clerk,  the  Judge  wrote,  — 

"There  are  two  classes  of  rich  people  —  the  rich 
and  the  poor." 

Such  was  the  quality  of  thought  in  the  presiding 
Judge. 

And  things  continued  to  go  ill,  day  after  day. 
Plunkett,  district  attorney,  a  man  whom  Penning 
valued  as  a  friend,  drove  the  Judge  nearly  distraught 
in  one  particular  case,  with  his  ceaseless  objections. 
More  than  once  the  prosecutor's  objections,  argued 
out  by  opposing  counsel,  trapped  Penning  into  hasty 
and  testy  decisions  on  points  of  law  —  decisions  that 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  327 

raised  professional  eyebrows,  that  made  causes  for 
new  trials,  or  appeals  to  a  higher  court. 

Not  much  to  the  honour  of  a  Common  Pleas 
Judge. 

At  length,  the  particular  case  that  engaged  them 
being  of  nonsensically  slight  importance,  and  Plun- 
kett's  objections  being  of  unwarrantable  frequency. 
Penning  once  blurted  out, 

"Plunkett,  proceed,  if  you  please!"  Then  he 
added,  "When  will  you  learn  how  to  conduct  a  case!" 

The  whole  court-room  pricked  up  its  ears  at  such 
a  remark. 

"Never,  before  this  court!"  Plunkett  retorted, 
forgetful  of  himself. 

Penning  rebuked  him,  savagely.  And  Plunkett, 
under  the  lash,  replied  with  spirit,  until  every  mouth 
in  the  room  was  agape  as  Penning,  in  a  voice  high 
and  strained,  roared  out, 

"I  fine  you  fifty  dollars,  sir,  for  contempt  of  court!" 

In  reality  he  was  fining  Plunkett  for  having  lost 
him  his  own  self-control,  there  before  them  all. 

"I  've  certainly  had  my  money's  worth  of  the 
commodity!"  Plunkett  said  hotly,  as  much  beyond 
himself. 

"The  fine  is  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars!  To  say 
nothing  of  proceedings  to  remove  you  from  office!" 

There  the  whole  crowd,  lawyers  and  laity,  openly 
gasped.  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  session  the  smart 
of  that  clung  to  Penning.  Thought  of  it  blunted  the 
fine  point  of  his  attention.  Always  Penning' s  mind 
was  a  sentence  or  two  behind  the  testimony  or  the 
argument.  More  than  once  counsel  had  obligingly 
to  repeat  to  him  portions  of  their  remarks,  or  to  clarify 


328  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

their  statements,  that  the  Judge  might  catch  up  and 
focus  his  vision  more  acutely  on  the  points  at  issue. 

There  were  consequences  of  this,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  Surely  enough  the  Argument  Court  immedi- 
ately following  was  stuffed  with  prayers  for  new  triads, 
alleging  judicial  error  or  oversight.  Like  hawks  the 
lawyers,  till  lately  his  rivals,  now  sifted  the  Judge's 
every  word  and  move,  to  see  where  they  might  trap 
him.  Some  of  them  baited  him  brazenly,  with  un- 
wontedly  worrisome  Gordian  knots  to  sever.  Even 
the  lay  mind  was  entitled  to  its  opinion  of  the  judicial 
conduct.  Fragments  of  this .  criticism  Penning  over- 
heard in  the  Lincoln   Club  itself.  .  .  , 

They  had  but  a  single  virtue,  those  days.  Crowded 
as  they  were  with  business,  they  offered  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  no  single  opportunity  for  intrusion  I 


CHAPTER  X 

YET  though  Mrs,  Branstane  was  not  able  her- 
self to  touch  up  the  Judge,  she  was  able  to 
reach  him  by  proxy. 

By  the  unwitting  agency  of  Senator  Banks. 

Not  having  seen  the  Senator  for  above  two  weeks, 
Penning  was  thunderstruck  by  the  little  man's  appear- 
ance when,  after  Argument  Court  was  ended,  he 
timidly  entered  Court's  Chambers. 

The  Senator  was  shrunken.  From  a  stout,  ruddy 
little  fellow  he  had  become  thin,  and  pale,  and  grey. 
His  trousers  sagged  from  the  waist,  over  his  vanished 
belly.  His  coat  dropped  loosely  from  his  shoulders. 
The  shoulders  themselves  seemed  to  have  acquired 
a  suspicious  stoop. 

But  the  chief  change  was  in  the  Senator's  face. 
The  cheeks  sagged,  flaccid,  with  the  puffing  aU  let 
out  of  them.  In  sagging,  they  had  drawn  down  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  With  his  excess  flesh  the 
customary  neatness  of  the  Senator's  dress  had  like- 
wise vanished.  His  nails  were  rough  and  untrimmed. 
His  hands  looked  soiled. 

"Penning,"  he  said,  laying  a  worn  Derby  hat  on 
the  Judge's  desk,  and  beside  it  a  leather  case,  "I  'm 
going  to  show  you  a  book  without  which  no  gentle- 
man's library  is  complete.  You  are  an  educated  man 
and  wfll  be  able  to  appreciate  the  value  of  what  I 
have  to  offer." 

He  opened  the  flaps  of  a  sample  book,  each  flap 


330  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

exhibiting  the  character  of  a  separate  binding  —  the 
usual  equipment  of  a  book-agent. 

"This  is  'Clark's  Improved  Compendium  and 
Selection  from  Our  Favourite  Authors.'  In  this 
volume  —  of  generous  scope,  as  you  will  see  —  you 
will  find  all  the  genuine  pearls  of  thought  from  the 
world's  greatest  thinkers  —  Emerson,  Plato,  Napoleon, 
Robert  G.  IngersoU,  and  all  others.  If  you  want  an 
appropriate  quotation  for  an  after-dinner  speech,  or 
a  thought  for  an  appeal  before  the  bar,  or  an  ornament 
for  everyday  conversation,  you  will  find  it  here." 

In  wonder,  in  pity,  Penning  looked  him  over.  So 
clearly  was  the  Senator  spouting  the  carefully  memo- 
rised phrases  of  a  prospectus.  On  an  impulse  Penning 
was  minded  mercifully  to  cut  him  short,  and  said, 

"That 's  quite  right,  my  friend!  Put  me  down  for 
a  dozen  copies." 

But  immediately  he  discerned  that  Banks  was 
seriously,  desperately  in  earnest  about  it  all.  It  was 
"business."  And  Penning  patiently  heard  him 
through  the  rest  of  his  rigmarole. 

"I  see  you  are  impressed  by  the  merits  of  the 
work."  Spouting  mechanically,  the  Senator  was 
leafing  over  the  pages  of  his  sample  volume.  "You 
will  want  it  lying  on  your  library  table,  for  all  your 
friends  to  see.  Now  as  to  bindings — "  And  so  on, 
and  so  on. 

A  little  longer  Penning  let  him  run,  and  then  he 
said, 

"It  is  truly  a  wonderful  work,  my  dear  Senator.  I 
shall  want  a  dozen  copies,  against  next  Christmas  — 
saving  one  for  myself.  I  may  want  even  more  later 
on.     Meanwhile,  how  does  it  go?     Pretty  well?" 

"Not  very." 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  331 

Penning's  homely  and  intimate  query  seemed  to 
summon  the  Senator  from  some  distant  region  — 
called  him  back  to  the  old  familiar  footing.  He 
gazed  up  at  Penning  wearily,  trying  his  best  to  be 
his  old  self,  seeking  to  ignore  the  difference  that  had 
crept  in  between  Senator  Banks  and  the  courtesy 
"Senator"  who  was  there  to  sell  an  old  friend  a 
worthless  book.     And  his  eyes  filled  as  he  gazed. 

"Not  very  well,"  he  amended,  and  allowed  his  eyes 
to  travel  away  to  the  open  space  visible  through  the 
windows.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  shouldn't 
have  sold  any  copies  to-day.  But  you  've  more  than 
made  up  for  my  average  sales.  A  dozen  copies!  I 
haven't  lost  courage,  you  understand,"  he  looked 
quickly  back  to  Penning  again.  "Only — the  busi- 
ness opportunity  I  've  been  looking  for  doesn't  seem 
to  materialise.  I  never  would  have  believed  it  could 
be  so  hard.  In  my  time  I  've  helped  a  good  many 
people  here.  But  when  a  man  is  down,  everybody 
seems  to  enjoy  his  come-down.  I  suppose  the  failure 
of  a  man  who  has  once  been  up  in  the  world  makes 
every  other  fellow  a  little  more  contented  with  his 
lot." 

"Have  you  nothing  in  view?" 

"Ye-es.  There  's  a  little  laundry  for  sale  on  Edison 
Street.  A  good  plant,  too.  I  believe  the  right  man 
could  make  something  of  it.  You  know  what  the 
ordinary  laundry  is  in  these  days.  But  I  —  I  have 
no  capital  of  my  own,  and — " 

"Banks!"  Penning  swung  round  in  his  chair  till 
the  knees  of  the  two  men  touched.  "You  know  that 
half  of  what  I  've  got  is  yours!  I  'd  say  the  whole 
of  it,  except  that  before  long,  you  understand,  I 
may  assume  certain  obligations  — " 


332  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

A  tear  stole  down  the  Senator's  cheek. 

"Of  course  you  understand  the  —  the  pride  a  man 
may  have,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  accept  charity. 
Sherry,  dear  boy,  has  offered  to  set  me  up  for  life. 
But  of  course  I  can  accept  only  what  is  necessary  to 
start  me  going  again.  You  see,  I  must  get  going  again. 
.  .  .  But  if  you  and  Sherry  could  take  stock,  say,  to 
the  extent  of  $5,000,  I  'm  sure  I  could  get  a  foothold 
in  that  laundry  business.  And  from  that  reach  out, 
and  gradually  get  rehabilitated  again.     You  see?" 

In  a  timorous  eagerness  Banks  watched  Penning, 
as  instantly  the  Judge  swung  about  again,  and  opened 
a  drawer,  and  wrote  out  a  cheque  in  his  book.  From 
another  drawer  he  drew  a  box  of  cigars  and  a  silver 
cutter. 

Almost  greedily  the  Senator  selected  a  smoke,  and, 
smiling  the  request,  tucked  two  more  into  his  waist- 
coat pocket. 

"U-um!"  He  blew  a  cloud  of  fragrant  vapour 
toward  the  ceiling.  "Afraid  this  will  spoil  my  taste. 
But  I  can't  resist  it." 

With  the  feeling  of  money  in  his  pocket,  and  a 
good  cigar  going,  a  swift  change  came  over  the  Sen- 
ator. He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  threw  out 
his  chest,  and  thrust  a  thumb  into  the  armhole  of 
his  waistcoat,  and  began  to  expand.  Expatiated  on  his 
swift  recovery  of  his  wonted  place  in  the  town. 
Feverishly  jovial  he  became  —  as  if  he  knew  this 
rare  moment  of  relief  from  his  worries  was  to  be 
relished  to  the  full  while  it  lasted.  For  twenty 
minutes  he  became  the  Senator  of  old. 

In  the  midst  of  this  expansive  humour,  the  Sena- 
tor's eyes  narrowed  shrewdly,  and  he  waxed  serious, 
even  mysterious. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  333 

"Penning!"  he  burst  forth,  slapping  his  thigh. 
"Do  you  know,  my  friend,  I  never  in  my  hfe  saw  a 
funnier  sight  than  you  made  —  er  —  when  you  were 
first  —  ah  —  in  love!" 

The  Senator  laughed,  a  bit  over-loudly,  to  blunt 
the  force  of  this  candid  observation.  And  Penning 
courteously  joined  in  the  laughter,  though  he  was 
frankly  puzzled. 

"Yes,  sir!  by  gad,  it  did  come  down  on  you  like 
an  avalanche,  didn't  it!" 

"Ye-es,"  drawled  Penning,   "it  did." 

"Yes,  sir;  that's  just  what  it  did!"  the  Senator 
reaffirmed,  and  hesitated.  From  his  eye  it  was  clear 
that  he  was  still  far  from  his  point,  and  was  himself 
puzzled  how  he  should  reach  it  through  this  elaborate 
diplomacy  he  had  opened.  "But  I  say.  Pen,"  he 
stumbled  on,  "aren't  you  —  aren't  you  a  long  time 
in  getting  over  it?     Eh.^" 

Again  the  Senator  tried  to  laugh,  but  only  tittered, 
in  a  sickly  fear  lest,  now  that  he  had  spoken,  he  had 
wounded  a  friend,  a  benefactor. 

And  Penning  answered  nothing,  but  only  wondered, 
wide-eyed,  at  what  might  be  coming  next.  And  the 
Senator  hastened  on,  to  allay  the  smart  he  saw  he 
had  left. 

"Yes,  by  gad!" — and  again  turned  his  embar- 
rassed gaze  out  of  the  windows.  "I  —  I  admire  a 
man  that  will  take  on  like  that.  Over  a  girl!  By 
gad,  sir,  there  's  something  fine  in  a  man  like  that! 
I  —  I  wish  /  were  that  kind  of  man!" 

Still  Penning  said  nothing;  but  now  he  could  smile 
perfect  comprehension  at  this  kind-hearted,  blundering 
friend. 

There  ensued  a  painful  pause. 


334  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Then  Banks  started  off  abruptly  in  a  tangent  key, 
since  it  was  impossible  to  go  on  in  the  first.  "By  the 
way,  Pen!"  he  snapped  his  fingers,  as  if  at  a  sudden 
recollection.  "How  about  our  duck-hunting  in  Sep- 
tember?" It  was  then  early  May.  "You  haven't 
forgotten  it.^  Better  get  old  Barney  Grimm  to  oil  up 
your  gun,  hadn't  you?" 

Penning  smiled  on  at  the  poor  man's  transparent 
subterfuge. 

"September's  a  long  way  off,  Banks,"  he  said 
quietly.  "I  may  be  pushing  clouds  for  a  living  by 
then."  .  .  . 

For  half  an  hour  longer  the  two  men  smoked  on. 
But  their  talk  kept  stubbornly  to  the  stiff  and  the 
stilted.  Work  with  it  as  they  would,  the  conversa- 
tion died,  finally.  And  when  the  Senator  could  stand 
it  no  longer  he  hurriedly  betook  himself  away. 

Penning,  when  he  heard  the  slam  of  the  heavy  door 
and  heard  the  click  of  his  friend's  heels  on  the  tiles  in 
the  corridor  outside,  sank  into  one  of  the  hard  walnut 
chairs  and  laughed  aloud  in  his  bitterness. 

So  much  he  wanted  to  be  touched  by  the  Senator's 
intended  kindness.     And  smarted  instead. 

Could  that  have  been  Banks's  errand,  instead  of 
the  sale  of  the  book? 

Was  his  lapse  from  the  former  Penning  standard  — 
his  down-coming,  to  put  it  bluntly  —  so  obvious  as 
all  that? 

He  stalked  to  the  window.  And  laughed,  and 
laughed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITH  the  month  of  June  came  exquisite  days  — 
and  the  regular  term  of  Criminal  Court. 
With  the  exquisite  days  came  the  truly  full 
tide  of  golf,  and  rides  over  the  country,  and  after- 
noons in  a  canoe  —  and  more  of  Mrs.  Branstane  than 
ever. 

If,  after  a  round  of  golf.  Penning  chose  to  taste  a 
cup  of  tea  on  the  club-house  verandah,  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane was  sure  to  be  there,  on  a  like  errand.  If  Mrs. 
Brantley  required  his  presence  of  a  Saturday  evening 
at  her  lodge  along  Blackwater  Creek,  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  sure  to  be  one  of  the  party. 

The  quality  of  her  conversation  may  be  imagined. 

For  the  most  part  it  consisted  of,  "As  I  said  to 
Mrs.  Bemis,"  or  "As  Mrs.  Cloud  said  to  me."  .  .  . 

Sometimes  Annabel  and  Sylvia  were  of  the  com- 
pany. But  oftenest  they  were  not.  Mrs.  Branstane 
was  established  now,  on  her  own  independent  footing. 

This  freak  success  of  this  freak  woman  affected 
Penning  on  the  side  of  bitter  laughter.  Her  utterly 
calm  conscience,  her  utterly  smooth  progress,  in  the 
face  of  the  waste  she  had  laid  about  her,  was  ex- 
quisitely droll.  Gravely  he  would  shake  her  hand, 
in  subtle  irony.  When  occasion  presented  he  would 
sit  with  her,  and  rattle  off  the  wildest  ironies,  gravely, 
dreamily,  as  if  tossing  out  offhand  gems  from  a  rich 
experience  of  life. 

"You  must  have  noticed,  Mrs.  Branstane,"  he 
would  say,  "how  silly  it  is  to  be  friends  with  any  but 


336  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

buoyant  people."  He  even  called  her  "Mrs.  B." 
once  or  twice.  "You  know,  by  living  with  dis- 
heartened people  we  gradually  come  to  borrow  their 
disheartenraent. 

Or  it  might  be,  "Never  lend  money  to  anyone 
that  you  admire." 

"Pardon  my  presumption,  Mrs.  B."  he  would  add. 
"But  advice  is  often  golden.  And  this  is  the  kind 
that  you  can  coin  into  money.     Think  of  that!" 

These  subtleties  never  penetrated  Mrs.  Branstane's 
slower,  if  equally  forcible  intelligence.  She  took  them 
as  the  frankest  flattery.  These  golden  thoughts  she 
took  home,  and  pondered  them.  And  recalled  who 
it  was  who  had  said  them.     And  exulted. 

By  now,  though  she  still  saw  him  seldom,  she  felt 
on  splendid  terms  with  him.  It  was  clear,  clear  be- 
yond peradventure,  that  he  was  impressed.  She  was 
charming  him  now. 

So  certain  this  seemed  that  Mrs.  Branstane  began 
to  be  inflated.  She  put  on  airs.  Outlandish  airs.  To 
the  Gayland  ladies  this  prodigious  progress  of  their 
modest  pupil  was  an  ever  more  and  more  astonishing 
phenomenon  —  when  they  had  inclination  to  think  of 
it.  Even  to  the  exasperating  Mrs.  Gayland  she  was 
never  harsh  now,  except  when  that  good  woman 
innocently  dragged  in  some  lingering  intimation  of 
proprietorship  in  Penning. 

For  the  most  part  they  kept  to  themselves  now, 
and  let  her  go  it.  Annabel  had  just  returned  from  a 
visit  to  her  father  in  his  sanatorium.  And  the  report 
she  brought  back  was  of  a  sort  to  set  them  apart, 
and  very  much  together.  With  the  result  of  leaving 
Mrs.  Branstane  pretty  much  freed  to  come  and  go 
as  she  pleased. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  337 

By  then  she  was  no  longer  absorbed  in  the  inven- 
tion of  excuses  for  visiting  Penning  in  Court's  Cham- 
bers, since  there  was  always  the  chance  of  her  meeting 
him  almost  anywhere  outside.     In  "society." 

Meanwhile,  under  the  young  Judge's  outward 
ironies,  blazed  an  irritation  that  every  smallest 
circumstance  seemed  to  feed. 

The  irritation,  for  all  he  tried  to  curb  it,  followed 
him  into  the  June  term  of  Criminal  Court,  for  in- 
stance, and  there  found  stuff  in  plenty  for  its  flames. 
On  the  docket,  to  cite  but  a  single  example,  was  the 
case  of  Charley  Brady,  which  had  stirred  the  interest 
of  the  whole  community.  For  days  before  the  trial 
the  papers  were  full  of  the  sad  state  of  the  Brady 
family.  During  the  trial  the  whole  countryside  read 
the  evidence  and  followed  every  step  in  the  pro- 
ceedings against  Charley.  Charley  Brady  also  had 
been  a  darling  of  the  town  —  in  his  way  a  smaller 
Penning.  Everybody  had  known  smiling  Charley 
Brady  the  newsboy.  Everybody  had  wished  to  be 
waited  on  by  Charley  the  cheery  clerk  in  the  best 
Rossacre  grocery.  Everybody  had  smiled  approval 
at  Charley's  appointment  as  bookkeeper  in  a  bank. 
And  everybody  had  rued,  and  sympathised,  when 
news  came  of  Charley's  peculations.  His  parents  were 
poor  and  sickly,  it  was  remembered  in  his  favour. 
Every  indulgence  was  open  to  Charley  at  his  trial  — 
except  the  evidence  and  the  Judge. 

During  the  trial  the  evidence  and  the  Judge  both 
had  been  in  grim  humour.  With  the  consequence 
that  Charley  got  the  extreme  penalty  of  the  law  for 
his  little  slip. 

And  Penning  got  the  extreme  penalty  of  public 
opinion  for  his  own  little  error  on  the  side  of  severity. 


338  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Again  he  learned  that  a  Judge  is  not  permitted  to 
be  an  automatic  machine  for  infaUibly  registering 
justice.  Sometimes  society  decides  that  nothing  is 
more  terrible  than  justice,  and  will  have  the  very 
Judge  who  serves  it  before  the  bar  of  its  judgment 
as  if  he  himself  were  the  culprit.  .  .  . 

After  that  term  of  court  Penning  encountered  side- 
long glances  on  the  street,  and  overheard  the  fag 
ends  of  hastily-ended  remarks  as  he  moved  among 
his  acquaintances  at  the  Club. 

And  this  with  a  crack  at  the  Congressional 
nomination   not   many   months   away!  .  .  . 

As  this  clumsily  concealed  tendency  on  the  part  of 
his  friends  to  censure  him  reached  the  point  of  an  acute 
annoyance,  Penning  chose  to  flock  by  himself,  and  leave 
them  to  say  what  they  pleased.  He  set  out  upon  long 
and  solitary  walks  across  the  hills,  and  in  the  even- 
ings developed  a  taste  for  the  privacy  of  his  rooms  and 
the  company  of  a  book  —  though  he  paid  more  atten- 
tion to  the  poetry  of  the  sky,  paged  in  the  oblongs  of 
his  windows,  than  to  the  poetry  of  life  as  he  found  it 
on  the  pages  of  Dostoievsky,  or  Wells,  or  Dreiser. 

Finally  his  absences  invited  more  comment  than 
his  presence  in  Rossacre  society.  Of  that  also  Penning 
heard  rumours. 

Very  well.  If  peculiarity  was  the  thing  they  had 
come  to  expect  of  him,  peculiarity  they  should  have, 
and  enough  of  it. 

"Deuced  queer  sort!"    society  pronounced  of  him. 

"A  fading  issue,"   said  the  politicians. 

Indeed,  as  time  passed,  such  was  the  declension  of 
Judge  Penning  in  the  esteem  of  his  townspeople,  that 
Mrs.   Gayland  herself  was  able  to  note  it. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  339 

"Just  see  what  you  are  doing,  Annabel!"  she 
scolded  one  evening,  when  the  two  ladies  were  at 
home  alone,  and  Mrs.  Branstane  was  with  a  party 
at  auction.  "You've  been  so  saucy  to  him!  For 
shame,  my  daughter,  for  shame!  You  '11  lose  him  yet, 
I  tell  you,  if  you  're  not  more  careful.  He  seems  so 
quiet  when  he  is  here.  And  you  do  nothing  to  cheer 
him." 

One  person  only  in  Rossacre  refused  to  be  mystified 
by  the  conduct  of  Judge  Penning. 

Trust  Mrs.  Branstane  to  fathom  the  reason  of  his 
peculiarities,  his  odd  seclusion,  his  now  infrequent 
calls  upon  Annabel.  Great,  fine,  honest  fellow,  he 
scrupled  to  pay  court  to  Mrs.  Branstane  under  the 
very  nose  of  Annabel  and  Rossacre;  and  yet  could 
invent  no  means  of  getting  rid  of  the  incumbrance. 

Very  good.  Mrs.  Branstane  would  help  him  to 
be  relieved  of  it.  By  then  she  herself  had  seen  too 
little  of  Penning,  and  since  he  was  too  timid  to  seek 
her  out,  she  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  seek  him. 
As  a  toper  seeks  the  bar.  It  was  nearly  a  month, 
now,  since  she  had  seen  him. 

Her  opportunity  came  on  the  occasion  of  a  Ladies' 
Day  at  the  Club.  It  took  her  a  full  hour  to  edge 
away  from  the  crowds  about  the  tea  and  auction 
tables,  and  steal  away,  upstairs,  as  if  to  one  of  the 
cloak-rooms  reserved  for  the  guests.  She  was  certain 
that  he  was  above  stairs,  a  flight  or  two  farther  on. 

And  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PENNING  had  drawn  up  a  wing-chair  before 
one  of  his  open  windows,  and  from  its  depths 
he  was  studiously  observing  the  sky.  His 
feet,  in  red  morocco  shppers,  rested  —  and  ruminated 
—  on  the  sill.  And  he  was  bitter  —  unutterably,  and 
beyond  all  power  of  computation,  he  was  bitter. 

Not  because  of  this  business  solely.  This  was  only 
the  culmination.  The  top  note  of  a  long  crescendo. 
From  the  day  of  his  father's  early  death  in  debt, 
from  his  mother's  later  death  in  grief,  and  his  gambler 
brother's  death  in  the  gutter,  down  to  the  renuncia- 
tion of  Sylvia  —  always  this  giving  up  of  things. 
Always  somebody's  debt  or  burden  to  assume  — 
with  no  reward  but  a  beggary  of  purse  and  a  starva- 
tion of  desire.  For  as  long  as  Penning  had  had  a 
memory,  it  was  a  memory  of  these  renunciations,  of 
sacrifices  forced.  Always,  after  a  modicum  of  oppor- 
tunity, after  a  little  effort  and  a  little  progress,  the 
dropping  of  these  sudden  blank  walls  across  the  path. 

What,  or  Who,  did  it.^  Who  ordered  these  im- 
positions upon  him,  while  other  men,  and  often  ignoble 
men,  were  left  free  to  their  own,  and  often  ignoble, 
devices? 

We  used  to  call  it  God's  will,  and  think  it  ordered 
for  some  subtle  and  wise  refinement  of  the  soul,  and 
were  resigned.  Nice  consolations  this  improved  age 
has  to  offer  to  the  afflicted!  Scarcely  anything,  it 
seemed  to  Penning,  is  left  us  except  a  tinkle  of  touch- 
ing music  in  the  ear. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  341 

Nice  loftiness  of  soul  he  had  acquired!  With  every 
warm  impulse,  with  every  brotherly  inclination,  these 
trials  of  his,  impossible  to  share,  had  driven  him  in 
upon  his  shyness,  and  made  him  "enigmatic,"  and 
"peculiar."  Hungry  for  affection,  he  was  cruelly 
left  to  his  "aloofness,"  as  if  it  were  something  self- 
imposed.     No  one  approached  him. 

O  Lord,  he  was  alone! 

Except  for  Annabel.  .  .  . 

The  thought  of  Annabel  dropped  upon  him  like  the 
splash  of  a  stone  in  a  quiet  pool.  He  rose  abruptly, 
and  uttered  his  confusion  by  rufflings  of  his  hair. 
And  moved  about  the  room,  his  hands  in  his  trousers 
pockets,  his  head  bowed. 

After  all  what  credit  might  he  take  for  resigning 
his  claims  to  Sylvia  —  more  than  for  resigning  some 
lovely  picture  that  belonged  on  other  walls  than  his 
own?  Only  then  did  it  strike  him  what  was  Annabel's 
value  —  or  what  had  been  her  value.  He  saw  then 
how  hungrily  dependent  he  had  been,  all  along,  upon 
her  inquisitive  innocence.  No  one  else  had  so  beauti- 
fully ignored  his  "peculiarities,"  and  trusted  him  in 
spite  of  them.  Sweetly  and  simply  she  had  invaded 
his  reserve.  Waded  in,  that  was  it.  And  what  was 
his  bounden  gratitude  for  the  service  he  had  never 
estimated  till  then. 

Only,  Annabel  was  so  ready  to  wade  innocently 
out  again,  and  wade  elsewhere,  without  discrimination! 
And  he  sat  down  again.  And  leaned  forward  on  his 
knees.  .  .  . 

Pah!  He  was  pitying  himself!  He  was  your 
familiar  "misunderstood"  man!  And  he  laughed 
aloud. 

Laughed    on  —  at    the    complete    drollery    of    the 


342  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

situation.  All  this  complicated  hubbub  at  the  in- 
stance of  an  unwitting,  a  stupid,  an  utterly  inconse- 
quential woman!  Whom  it  was  difficult,  or  impossible, 
to  combat  to  any  effect. 

For  some  time  he  sat  so,  and  thought;  or  sat 
without  thinking;  when  a  faint  hum  caught  his  ear. 
Something  that  sounded  like  a  muffled  "Yoo-whool'* 
And  came  from  nowhere  in  particular. 

"My  stars!"  he  thought.  "Am  I  beginning  to 
'hear'  things.^" 

The  sound  was  repeated,  more  distinctly,  from  his 
door.     ' '  Yoo- whoo ! ' ' 

Glancing  round  the  wings  of  his  chair  he  leaped 
up  in  astonishment  as  he  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane,  and  gasped,  "As  —  I — live!" 

As  in  a  trance  he  watched  her,  while,  in  a  visible 
improvement  in  the  grace  of  her  manner,  she  coolly 
laid  aside  on  his  library  table  a  light  scarf  —  of 
excellent  lace,  if  he  had  cared  to  observe  —  and  stood 
before  him  in  a  gown  of  a  light  brown,  bordering  on 
the  yellow  —  daringly  away  from  the  sober  and  non- 
committal, at  all  events,  and  draped  in  scrupulous 
fidelity  to  the  mode  of  the  moment. 

That  is  to  say,  it  was  cut  almost  as  low  at  the 
throat  as  a  ball  gown,  and  almost  as  brief  in  the  skirt 
as  a  bathing  suit.  At  the  corsage,  as  at  the  hem,  it 
offered  to  public  view  the  candidest  possible  comment 
on  the  structure  of  a  woman  —  in  this  case  a  bosom 
and  a  pair  of  ankles  that  would  have  invited  a  passing 
glance  from  St.  Anthony. 

This  frank  physical  appeal  Mrs.  Branstane  empha- 
sised even  more  as  she  seated  herself  in  the  other 
wing-chair  by  the  library  table,  smiling  mischief  the 
while,  and  bent  forward  with  her  hands  neatly  clasped. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  343 

The  bosom  was  a  bit  further  uncovered,  and  so  were 
further  intimations  of  a  handsomely  turned  calf. 
Perfectly  conscious  of  her  effect,  Mrs.  Branstane's 
cheeks  glowed,  and  her  quickly  moving  brown  eyes 
sparkled  brilliantly  in  her  excitement. 

The  tableau  ended  in  a  saucy,  intimate  smile,  and 
the  remark,  "And  now,  please,  sir,  mayn't  I  have  a 
cigarette?" 

With  a  grand  flourish  Penning  drew  out  his  ciga- 
rette case  —  the  gift  of  Annabel  —  and  swept  it 
before  Mrs.  Branstane;  afterward  choosing  a  smoke 
for  himself.  Touching  a  match  to  his  visitor's  weed, 
he  lighted  his  own,  and  then  stepped  back  where  he 
could  lean  against  the  table.  And  there  he  indulged 
his  amazement. 

His  face  too  was  flushed  now,  with  the  mental  stir 
she  had  set  going.  AU  his  faculties  were  instantly 
mobilised  in  his  defence.  And  made  him  only  the 
more  handsome,  as  a  warrior,  with  his  lighted  eyes, 
and  the  defiant  cock  of  his  head. 

It  was  clear  enough  now  what  Mrs.  Branstane 
intended. 

No  emissary  of  the  Gayland  ladies  was  she  any 
longer,  but  operating  now  very  decidedly  on  her  own 
behalf.  And  there  was  no  longer  mistaking  of  her 
purpose.  Mischief.  Pure  mischief.  That  was  it. 
AU  her  talents  were  at  its  service.  Penning  she  had 
proposed  to  herself  as  the  next  amusement  after 
Gayland,  and  Landis,  and  Banks  —  and  God  knew 
what  others.     Just  because  he  was  difficult,  perhaps. 

AH  this  in  a  moment  or  two  of  study,  while  Mrs. 
Branstane  blew  out  a  single  saucy  curl  of  smoke. 

The  sight  of  its  cool  impudence  stirred  Penning  to 
a  burst  of  the  wildest  ironies.    This  final  intrusion  of  the 


344  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

woman,  into  the  farthest  retreat  he  could  find,  in  his 
fastidious  hatred  of  her,  revived  his  half-humorous 
toyings  with  the  thought  of  murder.  But  there  she 
was;  in  the  perfect  defence  of  her  femininity;  not 
even  to  be  struck,  or  thrust  from  the  room.  There 
was  something  to  terrify  any  man  in  such  ingenuity. 
But  so  much  had  he  endured  of  her,  and  it  was  so 
evident  that  she  had  infinitely  more  for  him  to  en- 
dure, that  he  could  stand  off  and  wait,  and  watch 
its  progress,  and  admire  the  fine  artist  touches  of 
her  technique. 

"Well!"  he  began,  to  hasten  matters.  The  sus- 
pense was  unpleasant.  "Truly  I  'm  —  I  'm  delighted 
to  see  you!  This  is  most  extraordinary  good  fortune. 
You  are  the  one  person  in  all  Rossacre  that  I  happened 
to  be  thinking  of.  And  now,  to  see  you  here,  in  the 
—  the  flesh!"  He  laid  on  the  irony.  "Most  aston- 
ishing! Tell  me,  to  what  do  I  owe  the  honour  of 
your  visit?  Oh,  yes,  I  know.  You  needn't  tell  me. 
Thirty  years  ago  Ira  Gayland  kissed  your  pretty 
mouth  —  and  hence  your  visit  to  me.  Curious  train 
of  circumstances,  isn't  it!  And  funniest  of  all  that  it 
should  lead  to  this!" 

He  turned,  stalked  to  his  desk,  and  from  a  drawer  of 
it  drew  a  handsome  silver-mounted  automatic  revolver. 

"Hence  also  this,"  he  repeated,  laughing  lightly 
and  fondling  the  weapon.  "We  weak  members  of 
the  other  sex  are  not,  you  see,  without  our  weapons. 
But  ah!"  he  broke  off  abruptly  as  he  watched  her. 
"You  start!  I  crave  your  pardon.  But  really"  — 
he  was  stepping  gravely  toward  her  —  "really,"  — 
he  laid  a  finger  across  the  muzzle  —  "between  this 
little  opening  and  you,  or  anyone  else  in  the  world, 
is  a  wall,  a  thin  wall,  but  impenetrable.     A  wall  of 


THE  END  OF  THE;  FLIGHT  345 

what?  Why,  of  considerations.  Damned,  eternal 
considerations.  Nothing  more.  But  no  possible 
snippet  of  lead  could  be  driven  through  them.  I 
couldn't  even  turn  this  thing  against  myself,  but 
considerations  would  stand  in  the  way.  You  yourself 
would  furnish  a  few  of  them.  Wouldn't  you  —  even 
you,  now,  be  a  bit  sorry  if  I  really  turned  this  thing 
upon  myself  —  just  because  of  you?"  He  drawled 
that  ineffably.  ..."  And  so  you  see,  in  deference  to 
you  I  couldn't  do  it.     Consideration,  you  know!" 

He  laid  the  gun  aside  on  the  table  as  he  talked. 

"How  I  spout!"  he  laughed.  "You  must  think 
me  frightfully  odd.  And  so  inhospitable!  I  hope  you 
mean  to  stay  a  while.  Though  far  be  it  from  me  to 
impose  my  puny  will  upon  yours!  Consider,  if  you 
will,  this  poor  abode  as  your  own,  to  treat  as  you 
please.  No;  don't  go.  Why,  you've  just  come. 
Don't  go.  I  very  much  wish  a  good  long  talk  with 
you.     Don't  go." 

He  was  moving  to  the  door.  There  he  turned  the 
key,  and  removed  it,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  ''Dont 
go,"  he  said  as  he  did  so,  with  ironic  unction. 

But  there  was  no  need  of  his  caution.  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane  was  not  afraid  of  him.  Far  from  it.  She  was 
fascinated.  Never  had  she  seen  him  so  handsome,  in 
his  fever  of  excitement.  And  with  this  grand  manner 
that  he  put  on  expressly  for  her  benefit!  He  was  a 
new,  a  still  more  dazzling  Penning  to  her. 

Mechanically  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  in  the  chair 
and  followed  his  movements;  and  drank  him  in, 
spell-bound,  in  a  kind  of  cataleptic  absorption. 
Something  of  emotional  wildness  in  her,  also,  arose 
to  meet  his  fantastic  mood.  This  was  the  humour 
she  could  always  understand. 


346  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

She  wanted  to  throw  herself  into  his  arms.  And 
the  Hghtest  breath  of  an  impulse  would  have  sent 
her  to  it. 

If  Penning  had  suspected  what  was  the  reason  of  this 
avid  interest  in  him,  it  would  have  moved  him  only 
to  the  wilder  merriment.  Had  there  been  a  lioness 
in  the  room  —  and  perhaps  there  was  —  he  would 
have  tickled  her  nose  with  a  straw.  Dawdling  back 
from  the  door,  he  let  himself  into  a  chair  convenient 
to  his  vis-a-vis,  crossed  his  legs,  coolly  flicked  a  spot 
of  ash  from  his  knee,  rested  his  arms  on  the  arms  of 
the  chair,  touched  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  and 
began  to  talk. 

Talked  as  he  had  often  teJked  to  a  jury,  but  never 
before  to  an  individual. 

"Madam,"  he  began,  "I  was  pondering  a  very  deep 
subject  when  you  came  on  this  —  this  thoughtful 
visit.  I  was  pondering  the  subject  of  ultimates. 
You  know  of  course  what  I  mean?  You  are  yourself 
an  ultimate.  That  too"  —  he  pointed  to  the  revolver 
on  the  table  —  "is  an  ultimate.  I've  wondered  of 
late  whether  it  could  accomplish  anything  to  help  me. 
You  see,  I  find  myself  in  the  predicament  of  so  many 
men.  After  all  I  am  only  finite.  Nature  has  made 
such  ridiculous  mistakes!  Why  should  man  be  finite? 
At  any  rate,  bother  the  other  poor  devils!  why  should 
/  have  to  be  finite?  I  've  searched  in  vain  for  a 
satisfactory  answer  to  that.  Woman  alone  is  in- 
finite —  in  her  powers  of  creating  disturbance.  But 
fie  on  me,  for  a  poor  reflection  on  your  sex." 

Inwardly  Mrs.  Branstane  was  exulting,  "It's 
Annabel  he  means!"  Yet  he  was  so  handsome  that 
it  seemed  a  pity  to  interrupt  him,  even  with  assur- 
ances   of    her    complete    understanding.      Besides,  it 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  347 

might  spoil  this  unusual  compliment  of  his  willingness 
to  talk  at  last  —  and  to  her ! 

"Yes,"  he  was  jabbering  on  with  his  ironies,  "I 
find  that  man  is  finite.  Every  man  is  walled  in  by 
other  men's  desires.  We  prowl  about  our  little  pens 
like  flies  on  a  pane  of  glass,  stupidly  trying  to  find 
a  way  out  —  when  there  is  none.  That  little  silver 
thing  on  the  table  there  has  helped  a  few  men  out 
of  their  pens.  But  I  find  that  it  won't  fit  the  lock 
on  mine. 

"You  see,  madam"  — he  leaned  forward  on  the 
arms  of  the  chair,  as  if  expounding  something  precious 
to  a  favoured  pupil  —  "I  've  just  about  made  a  failure 
of  it  here.  If  it  isn't  total  yet,  it 's  coming.  That 's 
what  people  think.  I  've  heard  them  say  so.  But 
I  've  done  worse.  I  've  made  an  ass  of  myself.  And 
you  '11  have  to  admit  that  such  a  thing  is  fatal.  I  'm 
a  'disappointment.'  They  all  say  so  here.  Yet  if  I 
put  a  snippet  of  lead  in  my  noddle,  I  simply  confess 
to  these  fools  that  they  are  right  about  it.  And  damn 
them,  I  don't  intend  to  give  'em  the  satisfaction. 

''But,  you  will  say,  why  employ  lead.^  Why  not 
employ  a  railroad  ticket.*^  What  so  simple  as  flying 
away  from  here.*^  And  starting  afresh  somewhere 
elsei^  Ah!  I  have  the  misfortune  of  a  memory. 
Wherever  I  went  I  should  have  to  remember  the 
incident  of  my  failure  here  —  failure  to  down  a  diffi- 
culty. As  you  know,  a  difficulty  in  life  is  a  challenge. 
And  one  of  the  painful  consequences  of  being  a  man  is 
to  be  sensitive  on  the  point  of  running  away  from  a 
challenge.     No,  a  man  who  does  that  cannot  live  on." 

There  Penning  rose,  and  began  drumming  his  chest 
with  a  fist,  as  if  to  hammer  out  his  thoughts  the 
more  candidly. 


348  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"No,"  he  was  saying  with  settled  conviction,  but 
more  to  himself,  ^it  was  up  to  me  to  meet  you.  And 
smash  you,  and  knock  you  out  of  the  way.  Some- 
how. .  .  .  Ah,  yes!"  he  returned  from  his  abstrac- 
tion and  smiled  down  at  the  woman  before  him, 
"but  how?  .  .  .  Murder?  Murder  has  its  uses.  But 
it  is  commonly  thought  to  be  impolite.  There  are 
always  these  damned  considerations  in  the  way  of 
murder,  you  know?  And  so  I  find  you  fixed  more 
firmly  than  ever  across  my  path.  Here  you  are,  very 
decidedly  in  this  room.  We  're  having  a  cordial, 
pleasant  chat  together.  I  hope  you  are  enjoying  it. 
I  can't,  unfortunately,  because  I  'm  too  envious  of 
you.  I  envy  you  your  easy  skill  in  getting  out  of 
your  'pen.'  Some  years  ago,  I  believe  you  said,  you 
grew  fond  of  one  Ira  Gayland  —  and  he  up  and 
married  someone  else.  That  was  your  pen.  But 
you  broke  through  the  vile  confines.  Haven't  you 
told  me  yourself  that  you  lightly  tossed  Ira  Gayland 
into  the  bughouse? 

"That  brings  us  to  another  odd  feature."  Penning 
had  taken  to  moving  up  and  down  before  her  with 
his  hands  on  his  hips,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  before 
a  jury.  "Some  of  us  are  hard  —  some  of  us  are  so 
inconveniently  soft.  I  happen  to  be  of  the  soft 
persuasion.  Murder  comes  hard  to  me.  Now,  for 
you,  life  must  be  simple.  For  you  there  is  only  one 
side  to  a  question.  That  side  is  always  your  side. 
When  you  want  anything,  what  so  easy  as  to  go  out 
and  get  it!  You  can  ignore  these  damned  consider- 
ations. I  myself  see  well  enough  what  I  want;  but 
I  have  to  notice  the  obstacles  in  the  way.  For  in- 
stance I  can  admit  that  you  have  a  legitimate  right 
to  existence.     That 's  the  obstacle  in  the  way  of  my 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  349 

knocking  you  off  the  world.  The  one  thing  that  I 
cant  see  is  what  you  want  of  me.  I  don't  know  why 
you  are  here.  My  ruin  begins  to  look  fairly  com- 
plete now,  as  it  is.  For  the  life  of  me  I  can't  see 
what  more  you  can  do.     But  don't  you  think — " 

He  stepped  closer  to  Mrs.  Branstane,  and  bent 
down  politely  as  he  finished, 

"  Don't  you  think  that  I  'm  reconciled  just  yet  to 
this  situation.  I  may  still  find  a  way  out,  in  spite 
of  you." 

And  Mrs.  Branstane  burst  into  laughter  —  delighted 
laughter. 

This  marvellous  man!  This  eloquent,  speaking 
doll!  For  this  brilliant  intellect,  as  she  thought  it, 
to  reason  its  way  so  close  to  the  mystery  of  her 
blocking  his  way,  and  never  guess  it! 

So  his  elaborate  and  eloquent  simplicity  only  made 
him  the  more  dazzling  to  her.  It  gave  her  a  superi- 
ority over  him  touching  the  maternal.  Dazzling  as 
he  was,  she  was  larger  than  he.  Something  that  he 
couldn't  "fathom,"  she  knew  perfectly.  At  her  sweet 
will  he  was  doing  this  dancing.  And  the  sight  of  him, 
spouting  there,  in  her  power,  so  nearly  overcame  the 
lingering  remnants  of  womanliness  in  her  that  she 
all  but  rushed  upon  him  and  threw  herself  at  his  feet 
in  full  confession. 

Only  the  fear  of  appearing  grotesque,  of  creating 
an  instinctive  revulsion    in   the  male,  restrained  her. 

And  for  a  moment  Penning  himself  restrained  her. 

Noting  that  she  was  staring  at  him  wistfully,  he 
threw  himself  into  as  faithful  a  copy  as  he  could 
muster  of  her  own  manner  and  said  in  a  mocking 
falsetto, 

'"Oh,  I  know  what  I  am!     And  I  know  who  made 


350  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

me  what  I  am!  Oh,  it  is  terrible  to  be  what  I  so 
loathe  to  be  —  terrible  to  feel  the  suffering  those 
Gaylands  have  inflicted  —  terrible  to  be  judged  for 
being  as  warped  as  they've  made  me  I'  Lord,  that 
touched  me  once!"  He  laughed  down  at  her.  "An- 
other thing  to  envy  you  for.  I  wish  /  had  the  same 
easy  way  of  excusing  my  faults.  Blaming  them  on 
the  Gaylands!  .  .  .  Here!"    he  ended  suddenly. 

In  one  waistcoat  pocket  he  found  his  watch,  in 
another  he  fumbled  for  the  key  to  his  door. 

"Here!  It's  just  five-thirty.  Some  of  them  will 
be  down  there  still."  He  went  to  the  door  and  swung 
it  wide.  "Waste  no  time,  Mrs.  Branstane.  Think 
what  society^' — with  infinite  unction  he  repeated 
the  word — "think  what  society  would  think  of  you 
if  it  knew  you  were  here!  Now  hurry  out  and  down 
the  stairs,  there's  a  dear." 

Slowly  Mrs.  Branstane  rose  and  obeyed  him.  But 
first  she  stepped  close  to  him  as  he  stood  by  the 
door.  Her  visit,  it  happened,  was  a  bit  the  more 
brief  than  she  had  intended.  And  without  satisfactory 
results. 

Looking  Penning  squarely  in  the  eye,  though  it 
cost  her  a  deeper  flush  of  the  cheek  to  speak  it,  she 
said, 

"There  is  a  way  out  of  your  'pen,'  Mr.  Penning. 
Some  day  you  may  be  clever  enough  to  find  it. 
Especially  as  it 's  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face." 

And  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed 
him — kissed  him  frantically.  And  hurried  down 
the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHEN  he  had  closed  the  door  the  highly 
imaginative  Penning  fell  back  again  into 
his  chair  by  the  window  and  burst  into 
apoplectic  laughter. 

This  once  he  had  got  rid  of  her.  How  often  again 
would  he  be  so  fortunate?     Nice  outlook  for  a  Judge! 

In  short  of  an  hour  he  started  again,  at  a  knock 
on  his  door.  But  this  time  the  sight  of  two  men 
relieved  him. 

Penning,  it  fell  by  chance,  was  not  the  only  ani- 
mated speaker  in  the  Club  that  afternoon.  Closeted 
behind  locked  doors,  a  committee  of  six  political 
powers  in  the  Club  membership  had  gathered  in  dis- 
cussion of  the  likeliest  Republican  for  the  approaching 
Congressional  nomination.  All  the  afternoon  they 
had  been  closeted.  Luncheon  was  served  to  them 
there.     Six  o'clock  had  struck.     But  no  decision. 

Naturally  Penning's  name  had  come  up  for  dis- 
cussion —  Banks  had  seen  to  that.  And  a  gale  of 
laughter  had  followed  its  mention.  It  was  pretty 
fair  token  of  Penning's  standing  then  that  Senator 
Banks  had  forfeited  what  small  remnant  of  political 
prestige  was  left  after  his  financial  downfall,  by  his 
obstinate  advocacy  of  the  cause  of  Penning. 

"I  tell  you,  the  man  has  taken  to  drugs!"  a  man 
named  Padgett  pronounced.  "I  hear  that  every- 
where. And  I  believe  it.  It 's  the  kindest  thing  to 
say  of  him.     It 's  all  clear  enough.     The  women  went 


352  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

crazy  over  him  and  turned  his  head.  Licked  up  a 
great  reputation  for  him.  Now  he 's  got  to  show 
something.  So  he  takes  to  dope  to  keep  himself 
going.     It 's  all  clear  enough." 

"Yes,  Padgett,"  the  Senator  mused.  "I  believe 
Penning  beat  you  in  every  case  you  ever  fought 
against  him.     Am  I  right.^^" 

Five  of  the  six  men  who  heard  that  roared  in 
enjoyment  of  the  stroke.  And  so  the  Senator  kept 
alive  the  fiction  of  a  still  reliable  Penning.  Finally 
he  thought  of  a  pertinent  story. 

The  narrative  had  to  do  with  a  Farmer  Jackson, 
of  Plunkett  township,  who  had  once  raised  three 
blooded  shoats,  thinking  to  take  a  prize  with  one  of 

them  at  the  L County  Fair.     On  a  certain  day 

one  of  these  three  shoats  wriggled  out  of  the  sty  and 
into  a  young  cornfield,  and  Jackson,  happening  to 
be  lone-handed  at  the  time,  spent  the  whole  morning 
in  an  effort  to  chase  his  shoat  out  of  the  field.  The 
soil  was  wet  and  soft,  and  the  going  poor,  and  Jackson, 
slipping  and  sliding  in  mad  career,  got  himself  pretty 
well  daubed,  while  his  wife  and  daughter  sat  on  the 
fence  and  enjoyed  the  spectacle. 

That  so  offended  Jackson  against  the  shoat  that  he 
shut  the  beast  in  a  pen  by  himself,  and  concentrated 
all  his  affections  and  his  swill  on  the  other  two.  But 
the  lone  shoat,  misunderstood  though  he  was,  was  not 
to  be  easily  dj^couraged,  and  he  refused  to  succumb 
to  Jackson's  snubs.  Do  what  his  owner  might  with 
the  other  two,  the  lone  shoat,  consistent  with  his  force 
of  character,  shifted  for  himself  and  remained  the 
sleekest  of  the  three.  That  rather  widened  the  breach 
between  the  shoat  and  Jackson.  At  last,  in  the 
wisdom  of  anger,  the  farmer  sold  the  peculiar  animal 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  353 

to  his  neighbour  Can  and  took  his  own  remaining 
pair  to  the  Fair.  And  the  remainder  of  the  homely 
history  was  that  Carr  and  the  incomprehensible  shoat 
took  the  prize. 

The  conference  thought  it  saw  the  Senator's  point, 
and  he  promptly  reinforced  their  gathering  endorse- 
ment. He  remembered  Penning's  rapsccJlion  brother 
in  CgJifornia,  and  alleged  he  knew  not  what  crimes 
had  been  done  to  fret  Penning's  mind  to  the  detri- 
ment of  his  work  and  his  health.  And  in  the  end  he 
got  himself  appointed  one  of  a  committee  of  two  to 
call  upon  Penning  forthwith  and  urge  him  to  brace, 
for  the  good  of  the  Republican  cause  and  the  general 
salvation  of  the  Republic.  To  insure  a  fair  decision 
the  hostile  Padgett  was  made  the  other  member  of 
the  committee. 

Hence  the  knock  on  Penning's  door. 

"Did  I  really  hear  that.^^"  he  mumbled.  "Or  am 
I  beginning  to  'hear'  things.^" 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

And  in  a  moment  Senator  Ranks,  followed  by 
Arthur  Padgett,  was  admitted  to  the  now  failing 
light  of  Penning's  rooms.  At  the  turn  of  an  electric 
switch,  their  host  soon  had  them  all  standing  to  each 
other  in  a  better  light. 

"Penning!"  the  Senator  said,  in  his  best  oratorical 
manner,  "you  are  the  hope  of  the  Republican  party 
in  this  district!" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  beg  pardon?"    said  Penning. 

Padgett  laughed  —  and  brought  an  instant  angry 
flush  to  Penning's  face. 

"I  say,"  Ranks  obligingly  repeated,  still  out  of 
breath  from  his  long  climb  up  the  stairs,   "you  are 


354  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

the  hope  of  the  Republican  party  for  the  Congres- 
sional nomination  this  Fall.  Padgett  and  myself 
have  been  appointed  a  committee  to  inform  you. 
And  believe  me,  Penning,"  the  Senator  finished,  "I 
speak  now  not  as  a  friend,  but  as  a  Republican." 

Penning  smiled  at  the  unconscious  epigram.  Then 
he  said, 

"Gentlemen,  can  either  of  you  tell  me,  is  there  any 
taste  in  the  white  of  an  egg?" 

A  pause. 

"I  —  I  beg  pardon?"    said  Banks. 

The  Senator  glanced  at  Padgett,  and  Padgett  leered 
back. 

As  Penning  marked  the  insinuation,  he  walked  up 
to  Padgett  and  tapped  the  top  button  of  his  coat. 
"Tell  me,  have  you  seen  the  famous  dingmaul  that 
is  ravaging  L County?" 

Padgett  tittered,  and  Banks  was  terror-stricken. 

Noting  the  state  of  their  emotions,  Penning  under- 
took to  enlarge  upon  it.  "Be  seated,  I  beg  of  you." 
He  bowed,  "/'ve  seen  the  dingmaul,  if  you  please. 
Had  it  with  me,  right  here  in  this  room,  not  an  hour 
ago.  A  soft  animal.  Very  sleek.  But  its  claws  are 
devilish  sharp." 

"You  see?"  Padgett  whispered  audibly  to  Banks. 
"Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  may  have  told  my  friend 
the  Senator,"  Penning  caught  him  up.  And  stepping 
to  a  point  directly  in  front  of  Padgett's  chair,  he  said, 
"But  this  is  what  I  tell  you.  I  asked  you  if  you  had 
seen  the  dingmaul.  That  delicate  allusion  was  blunted 
against  your  perceptions.  It  doesn't  occur  to  you 
that  a  man  may  have  interests  and  problems  that 
are  private  to  himself,  and  not  to  be  advertised  to 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  355 

others.  It  happens  that  certain  concerns  of  mine 
do  not  coincide  at  present  with  the  best  interests  of 
the  Republican  party."  Turning  to  Banks,  he  added, 
"I  say  that  to  you  too,  my  dear  Senator." 

Turning  back  to  Padgett,  —  "To  you,  my  little 
fellow,  let  me  say  that  your  proffer  of  favours  comes 
a  trifle  late.  I  have  seen  what  you  think  of  me,  but 
I  have  not  forgotten  the  five  thousand  dollars  you 
once  got  by  a  clever  trick  out  of  Senator  Banks  — 
though  this  is  the  first  moment  he  has  heard  of  it. 
I  'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  sparing  you,  Padgett,  so 
long.  Professional  ethics,  again!  Pay  him  the  money 
to-morrow.  If  you  don't  I  shall  bring  action  to  disbar 
you.  And  now,  from  the  colour  of  your  cheeks,  I 
should  say  you  have  some  respect  still  for  my  powers 
of  mind.  Let  me  bid  you  good  evening.  You,  I 
mean,  Padgett.     Not  Senator  Banks." 

As  Padgett  passed  out,  with  what  dignity  he  could. 
Penning  ironically  waved  after  him  every  imaginary 
trace  of  the  atmosphere  poisoned  by  the  visitor. 

Returning  to  the  Senator,  he  found  that  "Have  a 
chair"  was  the  uttermost  he  could  find  to  say  at  the 
moment. 

Banks,  used  to  the  ancient  tropical  relationship 
between  them,  went  whiter  than  ever.  He  stood 
there  so  mournful  and  anguished,  and  yet  so  obviously 
steeled  not  to  break  and  run,  that  Penning  burst  into 
bitter  laughter  as  he  surveyed  his  friend.  The 
laughter  died  quickly,  however,  as  Penning's  eye 
travelled  over  the  figure  of  Banks  —  his  clothes  more 
worn  than  ever,  the  thighs  of  his  trousers  so  thin  and 
shiny,  the  cuffs  of  his  coat  so  near  to  being  frayed. 

"What's  on  your  mind,  Banks?"  he  asked  of  hia 
silent  accuser. 


356  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"  That 's  —  that 's  precisely  what  I  came  here  to 
ask  you!"    the  Senator  blurted. 

All  through  their  long  attachment  the  simpler  Banks 
had  been  frequently  puzzled  as  Penning  retired  into 
moods  that  baffled  him;  but  always  the  Senator  had 
waited  patiently,  at  the  door  of  them,  till  Penning 
emerged  again.  Always  he  had  frankly  acknowledged 
in  Penning  a  mind  infinitely  more  complicated  than 
his  own  —  and  loved  him  the  more  on  account  of  it. 

Now,  though,  he  was  immeasurably  hurt,  in  feeling 
so  permanently  locked  out  from  this  newest,  and 
longest,  and  strangest  humour.  The  old  intimacy  so 
stubbornly  refused  to  renew  itself. 

Could  it  be  true  that  Penning  had  really  gone  to 
pieces,  as  people  said.** 

Even  Penning  started  at  the  earnestness  in  Banks's 
tone,  as  the  little  man  asked  again,  "Penning,  for 
God's  sake,  as  man  to  man,  as  friend  to  friend,  what 's 
the  matter!" 

Even  after  that.  Penning,  for  such  was  his  per- 
verseness,  his  utter  soreness,  could  only  yawn,  as  his 
contribution  to  a  better  understanding.  What  ailed 
him  was  too  large  a  topic  for  his  jaded  spirits  then. 

Still,  he  repented  and  tried  to  be  human.  "Aren't 
yoa  working  too  hard.  Banks.**"  He  was  going  to  be 
content  with  what  intimation  the  Senator  could  draw 
from  that  hint.     "How's  the  laundry  going?" 

"Oh,  splendid,  splendid!  In  a  few  months  I'll 
have  it  on  its  feet.  It 's  a  fine  little  business,  and 
I  'm  going  to  make  the  most  of  it." 

"But  don't  work  yourself  to  death,  old  man." 

"'Old  man'!  I'm  a  young  man  of  fifty-two,  just 
making  a  start  in  the  world.  Thank  God  for  past 
experience,  say  I !     It 's  going  to  shoot  me  along  like 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  357 

a  streak.  But,  now,  really.  Penning,  how  about  you? 
What  the  hell's  the  matter!  It  isn't  because  you 
can't  swing  any  job  in  the  country  that  you  're  — 
you  're  — "  Hastily  the  Senator  backed  away  from  a 
faux  pas  —  only  to  back  into  another.  "I  said  to 
Claverson  just  the  other  day,  'Why,  the  Judgeship 
is  the  merest  peccadillo  to  a  man  like  Penning!'" 

Penning  roared  at  Banks's  verbal  contortion. 
"Oh,"  he  said  between  gasps  of  laughter,  "of  course 
you  mustn't  expect  a  Michael  Angelo  to  lay  bricks!" 

"No,  sir!"  the  Senator  assented.  "It's  fiddling 
work  for  you,  'Why,  sir,'  I  said  to  Claverson,"  the 
Senator  hastened  to  correct  himself,  "I  said,  'I  '11 
have  that  man  Governor  of  this  State  in  two  years 
more!'" 

"I  only  hope.  Banks,  that  I'm  present  when  you 
make  me  Governor." 

"Why,  where  else  will  you  be!" 

"That  —  that  puzzles  even  me." 

With  that  the  Senator  lost  all  patience.  Being  an 
older  man,  the  ready  recourse  to  the  paddle  logically 
occurred  to  him.  And  he  got  up  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room,  shaking  his  head  and  his 
finger  in  unison,  as  he  applied  the  spanking. 

"See  here,  young  man!"  it  began.  And  the 
harangue  was  as  long  as  it  was  severe — and  kindly. 

"Very  interesting  indeed!"  Penning  said,  when  it 
was  finished.  "In  answer  to  that  I  've  got  just  one 
thing  to  say.  I  refuse  the  Congressional  nomination, 
out  of  charity  to  the  Republican  party.  In  view  of  what 
I  know  is  going  to  befall  me  in  the  near  future,  I 
couldn't  be  elected  to  the  poorhouse.  It 's  kind  of 
you,  Banks.  But  don't  waste  your  time  and  effort  on 
me.     You  need  all  that  for  your  business.     By  the 


358  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

way,  how  would  you  like  me  as  a  partner?  I  may 
need  some  such  job  as  that  before  long."  .  .  . 

When  the  Senator  was  gone,  Penning  this  time 
locked  his  door  securely.  He  had  wanted  that  Con- 
gressional nomination.  But  the  utter  futility  of 
running,  with  ineluctable  scandal  at  hand! 

Another  wanted  thing  snatched  away  from  him! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ON  the  next  afternoon  Judge  Penning  cleared 
his  desk  in  Court's  Chambers.  After  some 
fashion  he  had  laboured  through  the  term  of 
Equity  Court  that  followed  the  June  criminal  ses- 
sion, patient,  but  grim.  Now  it  was  verging  upon 
July.  The  heat  was  torrid.  Other  officers  of  the 
County  sat  about  their  offices,  under  electric  fans, 
and  chiefly  idle,  except  for  the  occupation  of  smoking. 
Even  the  criminal  himself  takes  a  vacation  at  such 
times,  and  the  sheriff  has  nothing  to  do.  The  lawyers 
were  all  bent  upon  summer  tours.  And  except  for 
Judge  Penning  himself.  Court's  Chambers  were  un- 
tenanted. This  afternoon  even  Penning  was  reaching 
for  his  hat,  with  another  soothing  tramp  over  the 
hills  in  view,  when  Mrs.  Branstane  entered. 

In  busier  seasons  her  calls  had  gone  unnoticed.  A 
good  many  of  the  Judge's  hearings  were  open  to  the 
public,  and  it  was  nothing  to  see  women,  or  one 
woman,  present  —  anxiously  serving  the  appetite  for 
civic  usefulness,  perhaps. 

But  at  such  a  time  as  this  the  visit  of  any  one 
woman  to  Court's  Chambers  was  bound  to  be  ob- 
served by  the  other  officials  in  the  court  house  and 
excite  remark. 

This  fact  was  instantly  in  Penning's  mind,  at  the 
moment  he  saw  her.    She  had  calculated  just  that. 

Hence  the  brevity  of  his  greeting. 

He  said,  "Get  out!" 


360  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Since  the  worst  was  coming  anyway,  it  mattered 
little  how  he  conducted  himself,  and  he  chose  to 
fight. 

Instant  anger  provided  Mrs.  Branstane  with  in- 
stant resolution,  however.  "So?"  she  said,  with 
surpassing  sweetness,  and  came  boldly  into  the  room 
and  selected  a  chair  near  the  Judge's  desk.  "I  'm 
not  the  cholera,  you  know." 

Yet,  angry  though  she  was,  she  was  not  going  to  be 
stampeded  into  any  hot  and  defeating  burst  of 
language. 

She  was  there  to  take  immediate  advantage  of  her 
progress,  to  reinforce  the  impression  she  felt  she  had 
made  on  the  afternoon  before  in  Penning' s  rooms  at 
the  Club  —  even  though  her  visit  then  had  not 
produced  quite  the  hoped-for  results. 

Penning  ostentatiously  rose  and  put  on  his  hat. 
And  dread  that  he  might  walk  out  and  leave  her 
spurred  Mrs.  Branstane  to  say  hurriedly,  "I  want 
your  help,  Mr.  Penning.     For  myself,  this  time." 

Penning  laughed  outright.  "And  you'll  take  it 
from  me  at  the  point  of  the  pistol,  if  necessary!" 

The  instant  he  had  spoken,  Penning  regretted  it. 
He  had  stopped  long  enough  to  bandy  words  with 
her  again. 

"Oh,  I  see  you  don't  like  me,  Mr.  Penning  —  not 
yet.     It 's  because  we  don't  understand  each  other." 

"But  have  we  any  desire  to  understand  each  other!" 
he  cut  in.     "/'m  in  on  that,  you  know!" 

"Won't  you  help  me.^^" 

Mrs.  Branstane  this  time  made  that  an  impassioned 
outcry.  Hurriedly,  desperately  she  waded  on,  against 
the  flood  of  his  irritation.  "Really  I  —  I  have  only 
the  kindest  feelings  toward  you.     Funny,  isn't  it,  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  361 

way  we  get  tangled  up,  every  time  I  come.  It  always 
sets  us  to  hammering  each  other,  doesn't  it?" 

"Then  for  God's  sake,  why  come?" 

Still  Mrs.  Branstane  resolved  to  control  herself; 
still  she  would  melt  him.  "Oh,  please  don't  be  angry 
with  me.  I  'm  sorry  —  so  sorry,  Mr.  Penning,  that 
you  've  formed  such  a  wrong  impression  of  me.  I 
want  you  to  like  me.  And  oughtn't  we  —  as  long  as 
we  are  to  be  associated  together  —  oughtn't  we  to 
understand  each  other  better?" 

"How  do  you  know  we're  going  to  be  'associated 
together'!" 

"Because  I  have  a  pretty  firm  suspicion  that  we 
are,  Mr.  Penning!"  Mrs.  Branstane  burst  out,  but 
instantly  closed  her  erring  lips  with  her  hand.  "Ah," 
she  ventured  on,  in  the  old  tone  of  entreaty,  "where 
is  your  boasted  kindness  and  sympathy,  if  you  will 
not  understand  me!     Oh  — " 

"Oh,  bosh!" 

"Aha-a-a!" 

The  inflammable  one  had  caught  fire  at  last.  With 
hands  upraised  Mrs.  Branstane  rose  and  started 
toward  him,  in  the  rage  of  defeat. 

"I  thought  so!"  Penning  laughed,  though  he  could 
scarcely  speak  for  his  ungovernable  loathing.  He 
himself  stepped  round  from  his  desk  to  meet  Mrs. 
Branstane,  white  with  anger,  his  fists  clenched,  his 
whole  person  trembling  with  rage. 

"See  here!"  he  gasped,  he  exploded.  "I've  got 
about  $96,000.  I  counted  it  up  the  other  day.  It 's 
all  I  've  got  after  giving  something  to  Senator  Banks. 
It  isn't  much.  I  'm  only  moderately  clever  at  in- 
vestments. It 's  all  I  've  made  in  these  dozen  years 
here.     But  I  give  you  my  word  I  'm  not  withholding 


362  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

a  cent.  Take  it,  if  that 's  what  you  're  after.  Let 's 
save  time.  Take  it,  and  get  out.  How  about  it? 
You  go,  or  I  go.  It  makes  no  difference  which.  But 
you  take  the  coin,  and  I  begin  all  over  again.  What 
do  you  say?  I  can't  think  of  anything  else  you  're 
after." 

He  spoke  in  passion.  But  the  moment  the  words 
were  spoken  —  spoken  to  that  particular  hearer  — 
Penning  had  instant  reason  to  writhe  in  regret  at 
the  enormity  of  his  slip. 

"H'm!  Another  insult!"  Mrs.  Branstane  pro- 
nounced, herself  now  white  with  anger.  "And  the 
worst  insult  yet!"  Then  the  weapon  of  a  cruel 
thought  occurred  to  her.  "I  will  say,  though,  Mr. 
Penning  —  Judge  Penning  —  that  you  are  handsome 
in  your  bribes." 

Penning  clapped  his  hands  to  his  head.  "My 
God!"    he  laughed  bitterly,  "I  forgot  I 'm  a  Judge!" 

It  was  out,  then.  That  was  how  she  meant  to 
regard  Penning's  offer  of  a  parting. 

"I  guess  people  about  here  had  better  know  a  little 
something  of  that,"  he  heard  Mrs.  Branstane  saying. 
"A  Judge  that  bribes!     H'm!" 

Penning  had  started  for  the  door,  laughing  wildly. 

"This  is  what  I  might  have  expected  of  you,  Mrs. 
Branstane!"  he  snapped  at  her  in  passing.  "I  might 
have  seen  you  from  the  first  as  just  an  irresponsible 
trouble-maker.  But  I  will  say"  — the  habit  of  irony 
was  not  so  completely  swept  away  in  anger  but  he 
could  make  her  a  profound  obeisance  at  the  door  — 
"I  will  say,  you  have  a  positive  genius  for  the  pro- 
fession!" 

In  wild  haste,  her  arms  outstretched  toward  him, 
Mrs.   Branstane  followed  him.     "Oh,   I   don't  mean 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  363 

that!     You  can't  possibly  think  I  mean  what  I  say! 
I  never  mean  it,  I  never  mean  it!" 

But  he  was  gone.  Gone  with  the  distinguished 
appearance,  the  rugged  face,  the  elegant  manner, 
gone  with  all  the  components  that  formed  for  Mrs. 
Branstane  the  most  desirable  thing  in  the  world. 

On  reaching  his  apartments  at  the  Club,  Penning 
astonished  his  favourite  servant,  old  Parker,  with 
three  demands  on  the  Scotch  and  soda,  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, and  on  a  hot  afternoon.  The  old  fellow  was 
not  the  more  at  his  ease,  either,  on  marking  the 
Judge's  preparations  for  leaving  the  Club,  dressed  for 
a  walk,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  should  have  been 
seated  for  dinner  —  and  in  the  face  of  a  threatened 
thunder-storm. 

In  point  of  truth  the  imminent  shower  was  the 
very  reason  of  the  Judge's  determination  on  a  walk 
without  his  dinner.  Inclined  toward  another  long 
stroll,  he  had  looked  out  of  his  windows  and  noted 
the  promise  of  an  evening,  and  perhaps  a  night,  of 
rain  and  thunder. 

By  heavens,  it  was  the  last  straw!  Not  even  a 
simple  walk  might  he  take,  it  appeared,  without  the 
extreme  of  opposition! 

Very  good.  The  walk  he  would  take,  notwith- 
standing. And  if  only  to  accentuate  his  contempt  of 
the  elements,  he  would  go  more  than  half  way  to 
meet  them.  He  set  out  at  once,  trusting  to  a  dinner 
along  the  way  —  if  he  felt  jolly  well  disposed  toward 
it.     Let  hell  itself,  if  it  pleased,  yawn  in  his  way! 

With  a  light  raincoat  over  his  arm  he  struck  out 
up  the  Avenue.  At  Bayard  Street,  just  before  reach- 
ing the  Gayland  house,  he  turned  toward  the  river, 


364  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

crossed  the  Bayard  Street  bridge,  and  swung  into  the 
River  Drive. 

And  precisely  as  the  clouds  had  promised,  the  rains 
descended,  the  floods  came,  the  lightnings  despitefully 
spat  upon  earth,  the  trees  writhed  and  whined,  and 
thunder  rocked  the  world.  It  was  a  good,  honest, 
roaring,  old-school  holocaust,  even  for  that  valley, 
specially  designed  as  it  is  by  Nature  with  all  the 
atmospheric  ingredients  for  thundergusts  that  rival 
anything  in  the  tropics  of  fact  or  fiction.  Deep  in 
that  bowl  among  the  hills  gather  vapours  that  loiter, 
and  accumulate  tons  of  moisture,  and  electrical 
energy.  When  they  are  gorged  with  power  they 
pelt  the  patient  farmer's  crops  with  hail,  and  strike 
down  his  cattle  with  their  wanton  bolts.  Not  a 
summer  goes  by  but  some  field  has  ripped  from  its 
bosom  a  patriarchal  chestnut  or  oak.  On  any  night 
in  July  good  Rossacrats,  rocking  away  on  their 
piazzas,  may  see  on  the  horizon  the  red  glare  of  some 
poor  man's  barn  burning.  Disciplined  by  long  ac- 
quaintance of  these  rough  sports  with  him,  your  good 
Rossacrat  promptly  rises  from  his  bed,  no  matter 
what  the  hour,  at  sound  of  the  first  bolt;  and  dresses, 
ready  to  leave  his  house  on  the  instant,  never  sure 
what  second  will  bring  the  next  shot  of  wild  mark- 
manship  to  his  own  roof. 

Though  it  was  but  seven  o'clock  as  Penning  strode 
on  now,  mounting  the  path  that,  in  calm  weather, 
leads  lovers  up  the  mountain  to  an  elevating  view 
over  valley  and  river,  the  evening  was  as  black  as 
midnight.  The  wind  was  a  sustained  shriek  in  his 
ears  as  he  leaned  against  it.  And  he  revelled  in  its 
call  to  his  energies.  It  provided  him  grateful  work 
for  his  nerves.    His  face  felt  as  if  pelted  by  shot  from 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  365 

a  gun,  such  was  the  steady  discharge  of  the  rain 
against  it.  The  roadway  was  Httered  with  the 
branches  of  trees,  newly  wrenched  from  their  places 
on  the  boughs  above.  Often,  poised  on  one  foot, 
in  the  act  of  stepping  over  these  fallen  obstructions, 
the  blast  would  tilt  Penning  backward.  Even  in  the 
spaces  of  smooth  walking  he  was  obliged  to  hurl 
himself  against  the  whistling  wind,  as  if  it  were  an 
adamant  wall  that  was  bent  upon  pressing  him  down. 

Certainly  it  was  not  the  poorest  of  summer's  efforts 
in  that  pretty  vale. 

Whatever  it  was,  it  perfectly  suited  Penning.  In 
this  uproar  he  was  blissfully  at  home.  Far  down  in 
him,  in  the  depths  where  every  real  man  is  a  bit  of 
a  mountebank,  and  has  the  actor's  instinct  to  round 
out  his  life  as  a  finished  picture.  Penning  knew  that 
he  was  living  up  to  the  tragic  heights  of  his  sombre 
destiny ! 

In  reality  he  was  indulging  in  a  rather  imaginative 
form  of  swearing. 

Nevertheless  he  was  happy  in  his  fling.  Now  and 
again  he  would  pause  and  gaze  off  over  the  valley, 
as  some  region  in  its  geography  would  suddenly  stand 
out  of  the  blackness  in  the  brilliant  ephemeral  glare 
of  a  flash  from  the  sky  —  a  second's  view  of  a  wildly 
tossing  bit  of  woodland  on  the  distant  hills,  or  a  strip 
of  yellow  grain-field,  its  tall  ripe  stalks  swept  into 
waves  as  if  of  golden  water,  cringing  before  the  on- 
slaught of  wind  and  water.  Like  freakish  giant 
searchlights  the  bolts  ranged  over  the  town  and 
picked  out  familiar  steeples  and  buildings,  hazy  and 
dim  behind  the  intervening  veil  of  the  rain. 

Occasionally  the  mad  walker  caught  the  nervous 
sob  of  a  bell,  rocked  in  its  tower  by  the  wind,  its 


366  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

broken  peal  bandied  along  on  the  wanton  and  frolic- 
some gusts  of  the  wind.  At  times  the  tumbled  glory 
of  the  scene  took  Penning  quite  out  of  himself.  At 
times  the  world  persisted  in  being  larger  than  himself. 
Once  he  sat  down  on  a  fallen  milestone  and  wasted 
some  moments  of  valuable  exertion  in  cheerful  en- 
chantment before  the  wonderful  spectacle.  Yet 
always  he  recovered  and  whipped  himself  back  into 
his  whim  of  devilish  abandon. 

He  danced,  he  leaped,  he  yelled,  he  sang  snatches 
of  ribald  song,  such  was  the  physical  relief  of  con- 
fronting these  wild  elements  and  defying  their  dangers. 
Here  was  freedom.  One  spot  at  least  where  that 
noisome  woman  need  not  be  expected. 

Once,  fairly  well  along  the  mountain  path,  at  an 
opening  in  the  shrubbery,  a  wonderful  cluster  of 
flashes,  as  if  in  deliberate  unison,  lighted  the  whole 
valley  in  its  flare.  And  roaring  with  laughter  Penning 
shook  his  fist  at  the  little  metropolis  popping  at  him 
thus  impudently  out  of  the  night. 

There  lay  it,  and  his  life  in  it  for  twelve  years, 
epitomised  in  a  flash  of  lightning.  And  he  laughed 
his  scorn  of  the  place. 

What  had  it  done  for  him,  in  return  for  his  honest 
endeavours!  Given  him  the  material  reward  of 
$96,000,  every  cent  of  it  tainted  with  pettiness. 
Anything  it  ofi'ered  above  dollars  was  likewise  so 
tainted  that  decent  beings  must  toss  it  aside  in  scorn. 
The  State  Senatorship  to  Banks.  The  Judgeship  to 
Gayland.  Even  when  he  had  made  bold  to  love,  the 
town  had  ready  its  Sherry  Brookes,  with  a  claim  that 
no  decent  man  could  ignore.  Meanwhile  honest  men 
ruined,  like  Banks.  Scoundrels  like  Landis  suc- 
ceeding  as   they   pleased.      For   himself,    Mrs.    Bran- 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  367 

stane  finally.  In  all  his  twelve  years  in  Rossacre, 
what  had  he  got  from  it  but  such  a  loathing  on  such 
a  night!  In  that  one  flash  of  lightning  the  whole 
town  and  all  that  it  represented  stood  out  for  what  it 
was  worth. 

"Ah,  ha!"  Penning  shouted  to  it,  and  made  passes 
with  his  fists.  "Look  at  the  little  hole!  The  little 
sty!  Forty  thousand  snouts  snorting  and  sucking  at 
the  trough!  To  the  biggest  hog  the  biggest  share! 
To  hell  with  a  soul  above  swill!"  And  he  sank  back 
on  the  log  again,  weak  from  laughter. 

Almost  at  once  to  be  shocked  when  he  felt,  in  the 
palm  of  a  hand  dangling  at  his  side,  the  cool  snout 
of  some  animal  nuzzling  there.  Instinctively  striking 
out  in  the  dark,  he  struck  a  wet  and  furry  object 
that  emitted  a  yelp.  Stooping  down  he  picked  up  a 
small  dog,  lost  in  the  storm  and  lured  to  some  human 
thing  by  the  sound  of  Penning's  voice.  Whimpering, 
frightened,  the  poor  beast  was  happy  enough  to  have 
been  found. 

"As   I  live!"    Penning  roared.     "Well!     Here  we 

have  the   ideal  Judge  of  L County!     Only   see 

how  he  cringes  and  whines!  This  mind  would  suit 
the  views  of  the  dear  people!"  He  stroked  the 
spaniel's  wet  coat,  and  a  new  absurdity  occurred  to 
him.  Looking  up  to  the  raining  sky  he  commanded, 
"Hey,  up  there!  Strike  a  light,  will  you!  .  .  .  Well! 
You  're  a  long  time  about  it.    We  '11  see  what  this  — " 

There  came  the  expected  flash  and  roar,  and  the 
timid  dog  leaped  cl(^ser  and  lapped  gratitude  over 
Penning's  face. 

"Ah!  A  sympathetic  Judge!  And  therefore  a  just 
Judge!  I  might  even  tell  him  the  sad  story  of  my  Ufe. 
But  no;    that's  too  much  to  inflict  upon  a  dog!" 


368  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

For  a  space  he  coddled  the  luckless  but  ineffably 
happy  beast;   and  then  went  on  with  his  bitter  whims. 

"We  have,  you  know,  an  odd  saying,  'Lucky  dog!' 
Never  before  now  have  I  realised  the  force  of  that. 
You  poor,  snivelling  lord  of  creation!  You  never 
reached  the  end  of  your  interests  before  reaching 
the  end  of  your  days!  I  'm  in  that  fix  right  now. 
I  'm  like  the  gentle,  insouciant  cow,  that  has  suddenly 
waked  up  to  the  fact  that  in  all  the  grand  scheme  of 
creation  she  is  only  a  cow.  You  know,  my  friend,  a 
few  months  ago  I  was  getting  on  nicely  enough  in 
the  little  sty  down  there.  I  was  earning  something 
to  eat,  and  a  few  of  those  indulgences  without  which 
pampered  man  feels  he  cannot  exist.  I  refer  to  the 
honour  of  his  fellow-men;  their  votes  for  office;  and 
the  opportunity  of  being  criticised  by  them  all.  What 
more  could  one  ask,  you  will  say?  But,  all  of  a 
sudden,  it  stopped.  God,  it 's  a  funny  tale.  You  're 
enjoying  it,  I  see.  Here  am  I,  what  is  commonly 
regarded  as  a  strong  man.  When  all  of  a  sudden 
appears  before  me  a  po-or,  lo-one  woman;  and  just 
like  that"  — Penning  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  dog's 
face  —  "it's  gone!  Just  like  that!  .  .  .  She  ap- 
peared. And  that 's  all  I  know.  Nothing  for  me  to 
do.  Nothing  much  about  her,  except  that  she  's  a 
woman.  Do  I  admire  her?  I  have  no  feeling  for 
the  lady  that  is  feeble  enough  to  be  called  an  aver- 
sion. But  what,  I  ask  you,  as  a  competent  judge  of 
humanity,  is  why  the  devil  I,  of  all  the  forty  thou- 
sand down  there,  had  to  be  sirj^led  out  for  that  foul 
fiend's  unholy  attentions?  I  say  it  is  strange.  All  I 
can  do  is  damn  everything  over  an  inch-and-a-half 
high.     And  wouldn't  you  swear,  too,  my  friend,  if — " 

Penning  stopped  to  listen  to  something. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  369 

"Wouldn't  you—" 

He  stopped  again. 

From  far  down  the  mountain-side  came  a  cry. 
Something  like,  "Hallo-o-o!" 

"As  I  live!"  Penning  said  to  the  dog  on  his  lap,  now 
cuddled  down  and  wriggling  in  contentment.  "My 
stars!  See!  Someone  is  looking  for  you  —  on  a 
night  like  this!    A  dog  may  be  missed  —  but  not  I!" 

He  listened  again.  The  roar  of  the  storm  continued. 
Yet  again  came  that  long-drawn  "Hallo-o-o!" 

"Dog!"  Penning  owned,  "perhaps  I  have  been  too 
familiar  with  you.  I  see  you  are  of  some  importance  in 
the  world.  The  command  shall  be  obeyed.  I  '11  see  you 
home.    Evidently  it 's  down  that  way,  somewhere." 

And  tucking  the  animal  under  his  arm.  Penning 
began  slipping  and  sliding  down  the  black  and  muddy 
path  he  had  just  laboriously  ascended.  "To  be 
hunted  on  a  night  like  this!"  he  marvelled.  "Just 
when  I  thought  I  was  something  of  a  pup  myself!" 

"Hallo-o-o!"  came  again.  The  creator  of  the  cry 
seemed  to  choose  lulls  in  the  storm,  in  order  to  be 
sure  that  he  was  heard.  Yet  still  the  wind  played 
weird  tricks  with  the  sound.  Snatched  the  two 
syllables  from  the  lips  that  framed  them,  and  drawled 
them  and  quavered  them,  till  they  became,  like  the 
bells,  a  frolic  expression  of  the  night. 

"0-oh,  yes!"  Penning  answered  its  impatience,  in 
ironic  imitation  of  the  tone.  "Go  to  blazes!  We're 
coming,  as  fast  as  we  can!  See  how  they  want  you!" 
he  said  to  the  dog.  Even  shook  his  whimpering 
burden.     "Damn  you,  and  damn  your  dog's  luck!" 

"Hallo-o-o!"    they  heard  again,  a  bit  nearer. 

"Wait!"  Penning  stopped.  "Was  that  a  woman's 
voice,  or  a  man's?" 


370  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"Well!"  he  started  on.  "Maybe  it's  a  man  who 
is  lost.  Poor  devil,  on  such  a  rotten  night!  Maybe 
it 's  someone  calling  for  help,  and  not  giving  it.  We 
must  fly!  They're  scared,  too.  Hear  that?  Ye-es, 
coming!"  he  answered  with  all  his  might.  And  down 
the  path  he  stumbled  on. 

What  was  Penning' s  shock  when,  the  two  answer- 
ing cries  having  traced  each  other  to  a  meeting,  he 
came  upon  his  friend  Banks,  driving  a  rickety  old 
wagon  he  had  hired  along  the  familiar  way,  having  first 
hired  old  Parker  at  the  Club,  who  exercised  his  lungs 
at  intervals  with  his  long  "Hallo-o-o!" 

Openly  and  without  embarrassment  the  Senator 
wept  at  the  luck  of  having  found  him.  Plainly  Pen- 
ning was  ill,  but  he  was  alive  and  safe.  He  muttered 
incomprehensible  things  about  "dogs,"  and  "pigs," 
and  an  "honest  man."  He  was  found,  nevertheless. 
And  they  hauled  him  home,  and  put  him  to  bed. 

For  two  days  he  was  down  with  a  frightful  cold, 
and  a  fever,  and  Lord  knew  what  worse  things  to 
come.  On  the  third  day  they  bundled  him  away  into 
the  country  for  a  rest. 

On  the  fourth  day,  his  worst,  the  Judge  was  can- 
didly delirious,  and  spouted  much  of  some  mysterious 
"Woman." 

"Thank  heaven!"  said  Senator  Banks,  when  he 
heard  that  —  for  all  the  time  he  had  faithfully  stayed 
by.  "It 's  only  a  woman!  When  all  along  I  thought 
it  was  something  serious!" 


BOOK  FOUR 


CHAPTER   I 

FOR  a  fortnight  Penning  lay  sequestered  "some- 
where in  the  country,"  at  a  farm  selected  by 
Senator  Banks.  Sedulously  the  Senator  spread 
the  report  that  Penning  lay  ill  with  a  bad  case  of 
poisoning  —  for  "poisoned  by  a  personality"  Penning 
had  phrased  it.  And  with  this  amiable  cock-and-bull 
fiction  the  Senator  might  have  prevailed  over  gossip, 
but  that  he  was  himself  immediately  stricken  down 
with  something  of  a  cold,  resulting  from  his  own 
exposure  on  that  night  of  rescue. 

But  Lord,  how  the  town  did  gossip,  nevertheless  I 
"That  man  Penning  poisoned?"  old  Bill  Morton 
the  grocer  sneered  in  fine  scorn  to  a  customer  in  his 
store.  "It's  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face  what's 
the  matter  with  him!  I  've  alius  said  he  had  a  loud 
cackle,  but  he  laid  no  eggs.  Now  he  knows  we  're 
all  onto  him  and  he  's  poisoned  with  dope.  That 's 
what's  the  matter  with  your  friend  Penning!" 

In  the  Club  nothing  was  talked  of  but  Pen- 
ning's  mysterious  case.  But  there  Lacy's  theory  was 
the  more  generally  accepted.  "Woman,  gentlemen; 
Woman!"  And  he  kissed  his  fingers  to  the  ceiling. 
"Something  wrong  with  his  love-affairs,  that's  all. 
He 's  the  sort  to  take  such  things  to  heart.  Only 
a  few  of  us  left,  gentlemen!" 

"But  who  can  it  be!   Our  friend  'Mrs.  Brimstone'?" 
"Pooh!     She's  scarcely  his  sort."  .  .  . 
At  length  the  unhappy  estate  of  Penning  registered 
itself  on  the  consciousness  of  Mrs.  Gayland  herself. 


374  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"For  shame,  my  daughter!"  she  complained  to 
Annabel.  "Fie  on  you  and  your  silly  pride!  What 
if  he  hasnH  been  near  you  for  a  month.  You  ought 
to  write  to  him  and  tell  him  how  sorry  you  are.  .  .  . 
And  if  you  don't  write  to  him,  I  '11  attend  to  it 
myself." 

"Mother!"     And  Annabel  blushed  for  her  parent. 

This,  moreover,  was  spoken  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Branstane. 

So  people  gossiped  and  marvelled  about  Penning. 
But  Mrs.  Branstane  knew,  and  knowing,  was  con- 
tented. If  the  poor  idiot  was  going  to  shy  in  that 
fashion  at  his  best  interests,  let  him  rant  and  riot 
as  he  pleased! 

Really  the  rioting  and  the  gossip  intoxicated  Mrs. 
Branstane.  They  were  the  measure  of  her  power. 
The  whole  town  seemed  to  answer  to  her  lightest 
touch.  Everywhere  Mrs.  Branstane  could  note  effects 
large  and  small  from  her  presence  in  the  town  — 
from  the  towering  turmoil  of  Judge  Penning  to  the 
small  circumstance  that  Annabel  Gayland  confessed 
to  a  sleep  some  hours  shorter  than  the  normal  each 
night.  Why  shouldn't  Mrs.  Branstane  prowl  about 
the  Gayland  mansion  now  with  a  satisfied  smile! 

Still,  she  wasn't  getting  forward  with  Penning.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  it  was  such  misgivings  that  accounted  for 
the  mixed  mosaic  of  her  moods  now  toward  the  Gay- 
land ladies.  So  long  as  there  was  the  ghost  of  a 
chance  of  Mrs.  Branstane's  landing  Judge  Penning 
for  herself,  she  was  disposed  to  be  decent  to  his 
friends.  Still,  sometimes,  in  her  rising  nervousness, 
she  lost  patience  even  with  the  angelic  Annabel. 
But  chiefly  it  was  Annabel's  mother  who  annoyed 
her.    The  simple  Mrs.  Gayland  could  never  live  down 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  375 

a  lingering  sense  of  proprietorship  in  the  Gayland 
house  and  its  contents. 

One  day,  at  luncheon,  when  Annabel  was  a  guest 
somewhere  else,  and  occasion  was  favourable  to 
candour,  Mrs.  Branstane  observed, 

"By  the  way!"  Looking  toward  the  sideboard 
Mrs.  Branstane  had  noticed  the  absence  of  Judge 
Gayland's  handsome  silver  punch-bowl,  and  her  sus- 
picions were  aroused  at  once.  "Where  is  that  thing?" 
She  pointed  to  the  vacant  place.  "I  haven't  seen  it 
for  two  days." 

"E-eh,"  Mrs.  Gayland  sighed,  "we  drank  away  all 
our  good  luck  in  that  wretched  bowl.  God  has 
punished  us  for  that." 

"Yes,  I  know.    But  what  have  you  done  with  it?" 

"E-eh,  I  gave  it  to  God." 

"'Gave  it  to  God'!"  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed  out- 
right at  Mrs.  Gayland's  bovine  solemnity.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

"0-oh,"  Mrs.  Gayland  sighed  further,  "if  only  I 
had  broken  it  up  long  ago!  Maybe  we  'd  have  had 
better  luck.  I  had  no  money  for  my  missionary  dues 
so  I  gave  them  that.  It  seemed  like  a  penance  for 
its  many,  many  sins." 

That  was  enough  for  Mrs.  Branstane.  To  atone- 
ment on  any  such  scale  of  magnificence  she  determined 
to  put  a  prompt  quietus.  So  long  as  Mrs.  Gayland 
chose  to  mortify  the  flesh  by  hiding  away  her  best 
napery  and  china,  Mrs.  Branstane  could  countenance 
the  thrift.  But  this  high-handed  disposal  of  the 
punch-bowl  was  not  to  be  dismissed  without  a  rebuke. 

Poor  Mrs.  Gayland  was  at  once  in  a  lachrymose 
condition.  "Why,  Nellie!  I  hope  I  haven't  offended 
you,  have  I?" 


376  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Without  Penning  there  was  no  future  for  Mrs.  Gay- 
land.  Nobody  to  repair  the  house,  and  straighten  the 
leaning  gateposts.  Till  Penning  could  be  won  back  she 
felt  obliged  to  keep  Mrs.  Branstane  in  good  humour 
whatever  the  cost.  "I  do  hope  I  haven't  offended 
you!"  she  repeated.     "I  'm  sure  I  never  meant  to." 

"Mother!"  And  the  two  women  started  as  Anna- 
bel entered  the  dining-room  in  time  to  hear  the  end 
of  the  colloquy.  They  both  looked  at  her  in  amaze- 
ment, in  answer  to  the  strange  new  tone  in  the  girl's 
voice. 

That  day  Mrs.  Branstane  had  more  misgivings. 

"Mother,"  Annabel  said,  when  they  were  at  last 
alone,  "I  have  a  note  from  Mr.  Penning.  I  've  asked 
him  to  let  me  take  him  for  a  drive.  And  he  '11  come 
to-morrow."  .  .  . 

That  it  was  time  to  leave  his  rural  retreat  and  face 
the  town  Penning  had  now  fully  sensed.  The  quality 
of  gossip  that  was  afloat  about  him  he  could  readily 
guess;  and  in  hiding  away  any  longer  he  knew  he 
was  only  deepening  the  mystery  and  justifying  the 
chatter.  Still  he  had  the  sensation,  as  he  returned  to 
town,  that  he  was  rather  going  to  his  doom. 

The  quality  of  Mrs.  Branstane's  revenge  he  could 
easily  imagine,  if  he  declined  to  treat  with  her  except 
with  the  most  skilful  diplomacy. 

Nevertheless,  and  though  ashamed  of  his  babyish 
tantrum,  he  returned  to  town  with  his  head  in  the  air, 
and  with  nothing  but  ironically  jocose  replies  to  the  in- 
quirers at  the  Club,  with  their  insinuating  curiosity. 

"Now,  what  can  you  make  of  a  fellow  like  that!" 
was  the  current  comment  among  them. 

Duly  Penning  arrayed  himself  next  day  in  his  best 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  377 

sporting  attire  —  in  a  bold  shepherd's  plaid,  with  a 
scarf  like  an  August  sunset,  a  broad  Leghorn  hat 
with  a  fine  lyrical  sweep  to  its  brim,  a  pair  of  canary- 
coloured  gloves  —  though  it  was  late  July,  and  in 
Rossacre!  —  and,  to  crown  all,  a  Malacca  stick.  All 
this  he  let  Rossacre  have  straight  in  the  eye,  and  be 
hanged.  Thus  he  set  out  up  the  Avenue  to  meet 
his  appointment  for  a  drive  with  Miss  Annabel. 

Halted  at  a  crossing,  while  a  funeral  passed,  the 
Judge  came  within  range  of  a  band  of  labourers 
engaged  in  digging  of  a  sewer,  and  overheard  a  half- 
whispered  conversation. 

"And  who  is  thot,  now,  Jake.*^"    one  of  them  said. 

"Thot.^^  Wot!  That  felly  in  the  circus  outfit? 
That 's  the  gre-eat  Andy  Penning,  Mr.  Berrigan. 
I'm  s 'prised  you  don't  know  the  gent!" 

"Is  it  possible!  Is  thot  the  Hon.  Andy!  Well! 
Thot  felly  ought  to  be  ho-ome  at  his  mother's  breast!" 

"Fine  pair  of  legs  he's  got,  eh?  Get  on  to  'em, 
will  ye?" 

"Maybe  so.  But  they  ain't  long  enough  to  run  for 
office  no  more  in  these  parts,  sez  I!  Not  from  wot 
I 've  hearn." 

In  the  titter  following  upon  this  touch  of  wit  the 
subject  of  these  remarks  passed  beyond  hearing  and 
pursued  his  way. 

The  Gayland  ladies,  when  Penning  reached  their 
abode,  were  engaged  in  unanimous  embroidery  in  the 
summer  house,  a  latticed  pavilion  in  the  little  grove 
of  apples  and  peaches  in  the  garden  behind  the  mansion. 
They  waved  their  handkerchiefs  in  unanimous  salute 
as  he  strode  along  the  driveway,  under  the  porte- 
cochere,  and  followed  his  course  to  their  court,  and 
bowed  his  respects. 


378  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"Ladies!"  He  swept  them  his  profoundest  obei- 
sance. And  for  all  his  pallor  he  presented  a  hand- 
some appearance.  For  a  brief  space  they  chattered. 
That  is  to  say,  Mrs.  Gayland  and  Penning  did. 
Somehow  Miss  Annabel  only  smiled  at  him  shyly, 
when  his  eye  turned  to  hers. 

Mrs.  Branstane.^  —  Mrs.  Branstane  chose  to  remain 
rather  in  the  background,  fearing  to  trust  herself 
before  the  other  women. 

So,  at  last,  it  came  time  for  Miss  Annabel  to  run 
into  the  house  for  her  hat  and  gloves  and  whip.  And 
Mrs.  Gayland  and  Penning  were  left  pretty  much 
alone,  precisely  as  Mrs.  Gayland  had  engineered  things 
to  be  arranged  —  seeing  that,  in  her  estimation  at 
least,  even  yet,  Mrs.  Branstane  was  little  more  than 
a  piece  of  furniture. 

Mrs.  Gayland  had  certain  matters  on  her  mind. 

"Isn't  she  pretty!"  she  exclaimed,  after  the  fleeing 
figure  of  her  daughter. 

"Extremely!"    said  Penning. 

And  there  was  a  pause.  What  need  for  further 
superlatives,  when  he  had  long  ago  exhausted  them 
all! 

"Mr.  Penning,"  Mrs.  Gayland  next  said. 

Mrs.  Gayland,  with  a  righteous  object  in  view, 
was  not  accustomed  to  waste  time  in  superfluous 
niceties. 

"Mr.  Penning,"  she  said,  "I  —  of  course  we've 
all  noticed  that  you  haven't  been  coming  here  as 
regularly  as  usual.  I  suppose,  as  you  say,  you  've 
been  busy.  Still,  I  can't  help  thinking  that  perhaps 
Annabel  has  been  to  blame  for  it.  She  hasn't  been 
treating  you  just  as  nicely  as  she  might,  and — " 

She    paused    for    contradiction.      And,    seeing    that 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  379 

something  of  the  sort  was  required  of  him,  Penning 
did  murmur  a  word  of  remonstrance. 

"Oh,  yes!  Of  course  you  would  say  so,  out  of 
poHteness.  But  I  couldn't  help  remembering  how  she 
has  behaved  to  you  in  times  before.  It  was  none  of 
my  doing,  Mr.  Penning.  Oh,  I  was  so  mortified  by 
Annabel,  when  my  husband  was  running  for  the 
Judgeship.  I  strongly  counseled  against  my  daugh- 
ter's impertinent  behaviour.  But  really,  Annabel  is 
a  good-hearted  girl.  She  means  to  be  very  helpful. 
And  I  —  I  trust  you  will  not  lose  patience  with  her, 
Mr.  Penning.  Bemember,  she  is  very  young.  I  'm 
sure  she  will  improve." 

Appealingly  Mrs.  Gayland  glanced  at  Penning. 
And  bravely  he  murmured  what  he  could  in  the  way 
of  polite  assent.  Albeit  with  an  ungovernable  curl 
to  his  lip. 

A  curl  of  the  lip  not  lost  upon  Mrs.  Branstane, 
surely,  who  watched  the  scene  from  the  kitchen 
window  —  and  not  without  a  curl  of  her  own  lip. 

And  when  Miss  Annabel  reappeared,  all  uncon- 
scious, her  mother,  to  stir  the  girl  to  her  best  en- 
deavours, gave  her  a  warning  pat  on  the  shoulder, 
as  Penning  assisted  her  to  her  seat  in  the  modish 
rake  so  much  beloved  of  her  father,  with  its  yellow 
wheels,  its  black  body,  and  its  smart  lines. 

And  so,  in  that  fashion.  Miss  Gayland  and  Judge 
Penning  set  forth  on  that  pleasant  afternoon  for  the 
drive  which  was  to  accomplish  so  much  for  the  health 
and  spirits  of  the  young  Judge. 

And  so  the  curve  on  Mrs.  Branstane's  lip  deepened. 
She  was  obliged  to  bend  deeply  indeed  over  her  em- 
broidery for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  in  order  to 
conceal    her    enjoyment    of    Mrs.    Gayland's    idiocy. 


380  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Everything  that  Mrs.  Gayland  had  said  seemed 
calculated  with  the  very  genius  of  idiocy,  to  diminish 
the  regard  of  Judge  Penning  for  the  subject  of  his 
expected  adoration.  What  could  he  see  any  longer 
in  these  Gaylands!  Mrs.  Branstane  trusted  to  his 
good  sense. 

And  how  passed  the  time  with  the  precious  pair 
on  their  drive. i^ 

Soft  little  swansdown  clouds  were  dusting  the  sky 
to  its  deepest  blue.  The  clean,  new  foliage  on  maple 
and  elm,  still  left  untarnished  by  the  sterner  heat  of 
summer,  rustled  and  fluttered  in  the  merry  breeze, 
and  the  fields  of  growing  and  ripening  wheat  swayed 
in  billowy  oceans  of  vegetable  water  that  hovered 
between  green  and  yellow.  The  brooks  babbled  and 
the  birds  obligingly  sang  —  robins,  and  orioles,  and 
wrens,  and  song  sparrows.  But  unheard  in  this  mid- 
summer symphony,  and  unseen  in  this  summer  pic- 
ture, were  the  cry  and  the  hurt  that  grew  in  the  heart 
of  Miss  Annabel. 

She  drove  Judge  Penning  across  the  Bayard  Street 
bridge,  spanning  the  lazy  river,  and  urged  her  horse 
into  a  smart  trot  along  the  River  Drive  —  a  wide 
and  smooth  road,  now  edging  close  to  the  broad  and 
placid  stream,  now  turning  away  and  mounting  some 
spur  from  the  mountain  to  the  left,  ever  and  anon 
lifting  them  to  some  enchanting  view  over  the  Ross- 
acre  Bowl,  over  the  northward  hills,  all  chequered 
with  growing  crops,  with  the  river  meandering  be- 
tween like  a  broad  green-edged  ribbon  of  silver. 
Beside  it  the  city  lay  dozing  away  under  its  ten 
thousand  trees.  Plumes  of  quiet  factory  smoke 
trailed   in   fixed  —  in   petrified  —  flutters   against   the 


THE  END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  381 

sky.  Far  down  the  valley  came  the  occasional  flirt 
of  steam  from  the  whistle  of  a  locomotive,  soundlessly 
far  away.  To  their  left  the  rumpled  and  tumbled 
surface  of  the  tree-covered  mountainside  leaned 
against  the  blue  sky.  All  the  pains  of  life,  all  the 
struggles  of  the  world,  all  its  contentions  and  clash- 
ings,  seemed  banished  as  far  away  as  the  soundless 
and  material  whistles  of  the  distant  locomotives. 
This  was  a  picture  of  peace. 

And  so,  in  the  former  Judge's  cart,  they  tooled 
along  the  Drive  —  the  precise  route  observed  by 
Penning  on  his  hysterical  walk  of  a  fortnight  before. 
What  ingenuity  in  Annabel  could  have  chosen  it! 
And  side  by  side  sat  these  two  proud  creatures,  in 
their  modish  vehicle,  with  nothing  to  divide  them  but 
the  thin  gap  of  air  between  their  two  skulls  —  and 
yet  not  very  close  together. 

Bravely  and  blithely  Annabel  urged  the  lone  horse 
they  had  saved  from  the  Judge's  once  populous  stable. 
With  her  whip  poised  cockily  in  her  hand,  with  the 
reins  held  in  superb  form,  the  real  strain  on  her  was 
not  the  control  of  the  spirited  nag  but  the  control  of 
her  more  spirited  self.  Hurt  as  she  was  by  Penning's 
stubborn  aloofness,  Annabel  yet  strove  by  a  thousand 
pretty  devices  to  invite  him  to  unburden  himself  of 
the  great  and  mysterious  aches,  whatever  they  were, 
that  crushed  him. 

A  becoming  civility  was  due  from  him  —  but  so 
he  sate  stiffly  beside  his  fair  driver,  and  tried  to 
listen.  In  a  very  grand  humour  was  Penning  —  with 
nothing  beside  him,  in  all  the  boasted  resources  of 
feminine  sympathy,  but  this  amiable  chatter!  In 
spite  of  himself  he  recalled  Mrs.  Branstane's  phrase 
about  the  twittering  canary. 


382  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

There  beside  him  sat  Annabel;  and  seeing  that  this 
day,  and  so  many  other  days,  had  gone  ill  with  him, 
she  forgot  her  own  ill-going  days  and  exerted  herself 
to  the  uttermost  to  be  inventive  and  cause  him  to 
be  forgetful.  For  days  he  had  been  ungracious  to  her. 
Yet  she  too  was  proud.  Her  utmost  she  had  done, 
her  utmost  she  was  willing  to  do,  to  ease  and  please 
him  —  but  no  more.  Pride  will  have  its  way,  cost 
what  it  will.  One  love,  only,  in  her  life,  for  Miss 
Annabel.  Not  the  sort  to  shift  lightly  was  she.  One 
sun  enough  for  her  sky.  If  it  sank,  the  rest  of  her 
life  was  night,  that  was  all. 

And  her  sun  had  been  sinking.  Almost  studiedly, 
it  seemed,  Penning  had  been  hurting  her  with  his 
abrupt  desertion.  How  many  more  drives  might 
they  take  in  such  a  humour  as  this  one  now! 

And  yet,  for  all  of  Penning's  inexplicable  behaviour. 
Miss  Annabel  heroically  spurred  her  weary  and 
wounded  wits,  to  cool  the  smarts,  whatever  they  were, 
that  oppressed  her  lordly  companion.  Of  how  blue 
was  the  sky  she  babbled,  and  of  the  fineness  of  the 
roses  that  year  —  of  anything  that  was  not  a  painful 
thought. 

But,  at  such  a  time,  mere  skies  and  roses!  In- 
wardly Penning  groaned  at  apostrophes  to  the  con- 
founded sky.  Not  with  such  twitterings  were  his 
overwhelming  woes  to  be  appeased. 

Thus  the  ridiculous  pair  pursued  their  way. 

Only  when  Annabel  remarked  upon  the  heavy  cold 
that  had  settled  upon  Senator  Banks,  they  feared 
with  threats  of  pneumonia,  or  perhaps  a  spell  of  the 
heart,  did  Penning  revive  —  with  consequent  hurt 
to  Annabel.  To  mention  of  Senator  Banks  he  could 
respond,  but  not  to  her! 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  383 

And  so,  in  that  absurd  fashion,  the  afternoon  rolled 
by.  Absent-mindedly,  at  one  point,  Annabel  took 
the  wrong  road,  and  stubbornly  protested  she  was 
right,  while  Penning  grew  openly  tart  in  correction. 
When  they  did  reach  home  at  last,  it  was  late  and 
dark.  Long  ago  Mrs.  Gayland  and  Mrs.  Branstane 
had  finished  their  dinner,  and  retired,  each  to  her 
haven  of  seclusion.  In  vain  Annabel  besought  Pen- 
ning to  wait  for  a  bit  of  refreshment  —  and  was 
secretly  relieved  at  his  refusal. 

Penning,  bitter  in  spirit,  after  a  perfunctory  leave- 
taking,  stalked  round  to  the  barn,  to  perform  the 
service  of  putting  away  the  nag.  While  his  irritation 
grew. 

The  Gayland  stable  was  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  the 
labour  cost  him  time  —  the  more  time  since  he  was 
slowed  by  the  force  of  his  reflections.  With  his  lip 
curled,  and  feeling  cheated  of  every  good  thing  in 
the  world,  not  omitting  plain  human  comprehension, 
the  able  Judge  Penning  stumbled  about  the  stable, 
barked  his  shins,  dragged  the  harness  off  the  horse, 
and  stowed  things  to  rights  as  he  could  in  the 
gathering  gloom. 

In  the  Gayland  house,  whether  he  knew  it  or  not. 
Penning  had  left  another  badly  ruffled  little  scrap 
of  human  existence. 

Like  a  good  many  other  poor  humans,  Annabel 
had  scanty  means  of  reading  the  future.  As  many  of 
us  have  noticed  at  times,  the  great  crying  evil  in  our 
dear  world  is  that  one's  life  may  be  lived  only  once. 
No  generous  provision  has  been  made  for  living  it 
over  in  a  corrected  form,  its  painful  mistakes  made 
right,  its  hungry  yearnings  appeased. 

No;    the  yearnings  eat  on  unstopped.     The  voids 


384  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

remain  unfilled.  A  few  fortunate  persons  may  avoid 
these  embarrassments.  The  more  unlucky  are  obliged 
to  eke  out  their  brief  existences  as  they  may. 

One  of  these  voids  Judge  Penning  had  left  behind 
him  in  the  once  merry  Gay  land  mansion. 

In  not  many  minutes  he  was  acutely  reminded  of 
this,  as,  out  of  the  many-roomed  house,  in  the  stillness 
and  chill  of  the  gathering  night.  Miss  Annabel  crept, 
when  she  thought  Penning  had  gone.  And  because 
there  was  no  one  else  she  might  seek.  Miss  Annabel 
wrapped  herself  in  a  light  scarf  and  stole  away  to  the 
horse. 

Without  troubling  to  turn  on  a  light,  so  well  she 
knew  and  loved  the  place,  she  waded  through  the 
straw  in  the  box-stall,  and  threw  her  arms  about  the 
neck  of  the  startled  but  whinnying  beast. 

"Oh,  you — my  blessed!"  she  said  to  this  wonder- 
ing proxy,  who  stood  for  the  sympathy  and  under- 
standing everywhere  else  denied  her. 

For  it  came  over  the  girl  that,  such  was  the  quality 
that  had  ever  stood  between  Penning  and  herself, 
never  had  she  acquired  a  single  pet  diminutive  from 
his  awkward  name  by  which  to  possess  him.  Even 
in  his  name  he  seemed  to  stand  distant. 

"You  dear  thing!"  was  all  she  could  think  to  say, 
over  and  over,  in  the  hunger  of  her  heart. 

In  the  next  stall,  motionless,  for  fear  of  startling 
her  with  a  single  sound,  Penning  stood  waiting  for 
her  to  finish  and  go,  and  heard  it  all. 

For  a  long  time  Annabel  clung  to  the  horse,  aim- 
lessly patting  his  neck  and  pouring  out  her  heart 
to  him. 


CHAPTER  II 

DEAR  thing!"  She  was  saying.  "That  means 
you,  Peter.  Or  that  is,  partly  you.  .  .  .  You 
dear!"  .  .  .  And  a  long  silence. 

The  hungry  horse,  munching  his  meagre  ration, 
created  just  enough  noise  to  save  Penning,  who,  with 
nothing  but  a  thin  partition  between,  feared  to 
breathe  for  fear  of  betraying  his  presence  and  frighten- 
ing her,  and  yet  was  impatient  for  her  to  leave,  and 
free  him. 

But  she  stayed  on.  "Best  friend  I've  got,  now, 
Peter!"  she  was  saying,  and  trying  her  utmost  to 
keep  her  voice  steady.  "Sometimes,  Peter,  I  think 
you  're  the  only  friend  I  've  got." 

Another  little  stretch  of  silence,  with  a  quiet  grunt 
from  the  horse. 

"Peter,  you  don't  know  how  lucky  you  are  in  being 
a  horse." 

So,  as  words  offered  their  poor  services,  Annabel 
relieved  her  mind  of  its  burden,  thought  by  thoui,^ht, 
with  intervals  of  waiting  for  their  formation. 

"Just  put  yourself  in  my  place,  Peter.  Wouldn't 
it  puzzle  your  wise  old  head  if  things  —  if  just 
everything  —  without  reason  —  dropped  away  from 
you.*^  .  .  . 

"And  when  you  had  tried  your  —  your  very  best 
to  —  to  do  your  part,  Peter.*^  Wouldn't  it  puzzle 
you,  too?  .  .  . 

"It  certainly  puzzles  me,  Peter.    I  must  be  so  much 


386  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

stupider  than  I  ever  thought  I  was."  She  laughed 
lightly.  "Don't  you  see  how  trying  it  is  to  be  a 
human  being?  .  .  . 

"The  world  seems  so  awfully  shaky.  To  us  human 
beings,  anyway.  Somebody  will  always  be  taking 
care  of  you,  Peter.  Even  if  I  can't.  You  know,  we 
may  have  to  give  you  up,  too.     Will  you  mind?  .  .  . 

"You  won't  mind  so  much  as  I  shall.  That's 
another  point  where  you  're  lucky.  It  must  be  fine 
to  be  a  horse.  I  'm  so  jealous  of  you!  Maybe,  where 
you  're  going,  they  '11  give  you  more  oats.  But  they 
won't  make  any  more  fuss  over  you  I  They  can't, 
can  they?  .  .  . 

"There!     I've  just  remembered!" 

Penning  crouched  as  he  heard  Annabel  rustle 
through  the  straw  and  grope  her  way  over  the  plank 
floor  of  the  barn  to  a  corner  near  the  door,  and  there 
scrape  a  nearly  empty  bin  for  another  measure  of 
feed.  A  minute  more,  another  rustle  through  the 
bedding,  and  he  heard  the  splash  of  the  grain  in  the 
manger,  and  the  grateful  snort  of  Peter. 

"There!"  Annabel  said.  "It's  shameful,  the  way 
you  've  been  neglected!  I  'm  going  to  make  it  up,  for 
as  long  as  we  can  keep  you."  .  .  .  More  patting.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  Peter,  I  've  had  so  much  on  my  mind. 
But  you  wait!  I  '11  take  care  of  you  now!  I  've  got 
to  have  someone  to  take  care  of.  And  you  won't 
mind  a  bit  that  it 's  just  the  leavings,  will  you? 
Because  that 's  just  the  lovely  character  of  a  horse.  .  .  . 

"Dear  thing!  .  .  . 

"But  really,  Peter,  I  've  been  so  frightfully  hurt. 
I  wish  you  could  tell  me,  candidly,  what 's  the  matter 
with  me.  Because,  why  is  it  that  I  've  never  tried 
to  —  to  be  nice,  you  know,  to  anybody,   but  —  but 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  387 

anybody  turned  right  away  from  me  so  soon.  I 
can't  understand  it.  .  .  . 

"If  it  had  happened  just  once,  why — it  was  just 
a  happening.  But  when  it 's  happened  in  one  case 
in  particular,  then  it  looks  awfully  as  if  it  were  my 
own  fault.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  suppose,  Peter,  it's  because  the  world  is 
so  terribly  difficult  to  get  along  in  that  I  just  haven't 
got  cleverness  enough.^  I  hope  you  '11  say  'No.'  But 
I  know  that 's  just  what 's  the  matter." 

Again  Annabel  laughed  softly. 

"You  see,  I  wanted  to  be  so  nice  to  him.  So  that 
he  'd  be  nice  to  me.  .  .  . 

"Perhaps  that  was  the  whole  trouble!"  she  said  with 
a  new  animation,  as  if  in  discovery.  "Maybe  that  was 
just  it!     Because  I  expected  something  back!  .  .  . 

"Yes,  now  I  see  it!  You  mustn't  think  of  —  of 
swapping  even,  Peter.  Ever.  You  're  bound  to  lose. 
You  've  got  to  give  yourself.  Freely.  And  then  just 
trust." 

More  vigorous  patting. 

"Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  I  've  found  that  out,  Peter!  .  .  . 

"And  yet,  don't  you  think  it  was  natural  of  me.*' 
To  want  somebody  to  be  nice  to  me?  Some  particular 
one.^  You  know  yourself  how  lonely  it 's  been  of  late. 
Don't  you  miss  Daddy.*'  Course  you  do!  We  ought 
to  be  good  friends  to  each  other,  you  and  I,  oughtn't 
we!  Because,  Peter"  — in  a  more  tremulous  voice  — 
"you  have  no  idea  how  cruel  the  world  really  is!  I 
simply  can't  understand  it!  People  seem  to  be  good- 
hearted,  and  all  that,  in  themselves.  But  they  get 
all  mixed  up,  and  in  each  other's  way,  and  injure 
each  other  so  much.  Without  being  able  to  help  it. 
They  just  bump  together  by  accident." 


388  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

For  some  moments  Annabel  seemed  to  wonder 
about  this.     Then  she  laughed  her  quiet  laugh. 

"But  isn't  it  nice  to  have  someone  rub  the 
bruises!  .  .  . 

"Probably  he's  got  too  many  of  his  own  to  think 
of  mine.     Do  you  think  so?  .  .  . 

"Maybe  some  day  I'll  understand.  .  .  . 

"But  Peter!" 

The  horse  filled  the  quiet  stable  with  a  dozen 
startled  steps  as  Annabel  shocked  him  with  a  sudden 
embrace  of  his  neck. 

"Peter,  wherever  you  go,  you'll  think  of  me, 
sometimes?" 

There  she  went  to  pieces  altogether.     And  sobbed. 

And  burst  out,  "0-oh,  I  don't  care  if  I  am  stupid. 
I  've  got  feelings,  too!  And  oh,  Peter,  I  've  been  so 
lonely!"  .  .  . 

But  just  when  Penning  could  endure  it  no  longer, 
Mrs.  Branstane  opened  the  stable  door  and  created  a 
diversion,  welcome  though  it  came  from  her. 

"Annabel,  Annabel!     Are  you  here?" 

Pulling  herself  together  as  she  could,  Annabel 
answered,   "Yes,   Brannie.     Coming." 

"For  heaven's  sake,  girl!  Where  have  you  been! 
We  've  hunted  you  high  and  low.  I  told  your  mother 
you  'd  surely  eloped."  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed,  and 
could  not  forbear  to  add,  "You've  no  idea  how 
pleased  she  was  to  hear  it!" 

"Yes,  Brannie,  dear." 

Crouching  low  in  his  stall,  in  deadly  fear  that  Mrs. 
Branstane's  hand  might  find  an  electric  switch, 
Penning  heard  Annabel's  patient  laugh  in  response 
to  the  cruel  witticism,  and  her  rapid  steps  through 
Peter's  bedding  toward  the  door. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  389 

"I  just  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Peter  was  com- 
fortable for  the  night,"  he  heard  her  fib  in  explanation. 

"Hurry!"  the  two  voices  died  away  as  the  door 
was  being  shut.  "Sylvia  has  been  calling  you  on  the 
'phone.  The  Senator  is  worse.  They  're  all  excited. 
And  they  want  you  right  away.  I  've  got  a  coat  for 
you.  Run.  I  '11  be  down  later,  if  there  's  anything 
I  can  do." 

The  door  closed,  and  was  locked. 

When  he  thought  it  safe,  Penning  stepped  quickly 
to  a  window,  climbed  through,  and  stole  away  under 
the  shadows  of  the  Gayland  trees. 


CHAPTER  III 

FOR  the  second  time  since  their  down-coming 
the  Banks  family  had  moved.  The  apartment 
they  had  found,  after  their  removal  from  the 
mansion  on  the  Avenue,  since  it  was  a  bit  expensive 
because  still  a  bit  fashionable,  they  had  vacated  for  a 
more  modest  house  in  the  row  along  St.  Mark's  Place. 
Every  penny  that  the  Senator  could  spare  from  the 
direst  needs  of  his  family  he  had  crowded  into  his 
promising  little  enterprise  in  the  laundry.  Even  his 
life-insurance  had  been  pared  down  to  a  naked  min- 
imum, to  save  every  cent  of  capital  for  his  business. 

On  his  escape  from  the  Gayland  stable  Penning 
had  walked  back  through  the  garden  to  the  little 
alley  in  the  rear.  Down  this  alley  he  stumbled  several 
blocks,  over  rubbish  and  ashes.  When  he  had  got 
a  block  or  two  down  he  turned  toward  the  Avenue, 
not  before  dusting  his  shoes  with  a  handkerchief. 
The  inspection  of  his  sporting  attire,  under  the  glow 
of  an  arc-light  flickering  through  the  heavy  foliage 
of  the  surrounding  trees,  gave  him  an  impulse  to 
fly  to  the  Club  and  shift  to  something  more  sober, 
but  he  clove  to  his  course  instead,  at  the  urgence  of 
the  Senator's  extremity. 

The  Banks  house  was  the  last  in  the  row  in  St. 
Mark's  Place,  and  divided  from  the  railroad  station 
by  only  the  width  of  a  street  and  a  vacant  lot.  The 
nearest  light  stood  in  the  little  park  about  the  ad- 
joining City  Hotel,  and   intervening  trees  so  shaded 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  391 

the  Banks  piazza  that  Penning  had  mounted  the  step 
before  descrying,  near  the  door  and  in  the  shadows, 
the  figure  of  Mrs.  Branstane,  waiting  for  an  answer 
to  her  ring. 

Except  that  she  had  already  seen  him,  he  would 
have  drawn  back  and  waited  till  she  was  within,  any 
trifling  association  with  her,  in  any  place,  under  any 
conditions,  was  so  violent  an  irritation. 

"We  're  just  in  time,  Mr.  Penning,"  Mrs.  Branstane 
said. 

At  the  "we"  Penning  winced.  Who  wanted  Mrs. 
Branstane,  least  of  all  Senator  Banks,  intruding  at 
such  a  time! 

"Looks  pretty  dark  to  me,"  she  added.  "The 
doctor  says  he  has  endocarditis.  And  I  know  what 
that  is!  The  very  thing  my  father  died  of.  Isn't  it 
funny!" 

Who  the  devil  cared  about  Mrs.  Branstane's  father! 

"There's  a  delirium  goes  with  it.  The  patient  is 
crazy  to  get  out  of  bed.  And  that 's  fatal.  If  he 
stirs  it's  all  over.  I  can  just  guess  what  a  time 
they  're  having  with  him.  You  know,  Sylvia  and 
Mrs.  Banks  have  been  nursing  him  themselves.  To 
save  expense." 

Here,  saving  further  consultation  with  Dr.  Bran- 
stane, the  door  was  opened  by  the  daughter  of  a 
neighbouring  family. 

Inside  the  door  Penning  caught  sounds  of  Mrs. 
Banks's  frightened  wailing,  somewhere  upstairs,  the 
excited  chatter  of  the  Senator,  and  Sylvia's  desperate 
endeavour  to  persuade  him  back  to  bed  again. 

"I  tell  you,  my  daughter,  I  can't  live  on  medicine! 
That 's  all  you  've  given  me  for  two  whole  weeks.  I 
tell  you  I  'm  tired  of  it.     Get  me  my  pants,  do  you 


392  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHJ 

hear?  How  many  times  must  I  ask  you  I  Things  are 
always  'put  away'  in  this  household  I  How  many 
times  must  I  remind  you  that  I  've  got  important 
business  on  hand?  The  most  important  business  of 
my  whole  career.  Go  get  my  pants,  there  's  a  dear! 
Sylvia,  I  've  always  been  a  good  father  to  you.  Must 
I  remind  you  of  that!  Take  your  hands  off  me,  I 
say.  You  women  are  just  plain  damned  nuisances! 
You  've  no  conception  of  the  business  worries  of  a 
man.  Let  me  go.  Stand  back,  I  say!  There!  Now! 
Hand  me  those  papers  there,  on  the  chair  beside  the 
bed.      That's  the  girl!" 

Clearly  the  Senator  was  having  his  way  at  last. 

"Where's  Dr.  Claverson?"  Penning  demanded  of 
the  helpful  girl  from  next  door. 

"He's  out  in  the  country,  attending  a  case.  Mr. 
Brookes  has  gone  after  him  in  his  car." 

"Get  somebody  else,  in  God's  name!  The  man's 
in  danger!     Where's  the  telephone?" 

"They  have  none.  Shall  I  run  over  home  and  call 
someone?" 

"Anyone!     The  nearest!" 

Penning,  with  his  foot  on  the  bottom  step,  about 
to  fly  up  and  try  his  persuasion  on  the  intractable 
sufferer,  was  halted  by  a  sudden  apparition  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs.  In  appearance  it  was  the  ani- 
mated figure  of  a  little  man  of  eighty,  who  bore  a 
faint  resemblance  to  the  Senator. 

For  a  moment  the  figure  stood  there,  his  legs,  now 
pitiably  wasted,  jutting  from  beneath  an  old-fashioned 
night-shirt.  Even  since  Penning  had  last  seen  the 
Senator,  a  fortnight  or  so  before,  his  hair  had  grown 
perceptibly  more  streaked  with  grey.  Now  two 
round  spots  of  red  enlivened  the  putty  colour  of  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  393 

face,  and  the  sunken  eyes  glowed  and  blazed  with 
excitement. 

At  sight  of  Penning  the  Senator  started  down  the 
stair,  one  arm  loaded  with  his  papers,  the  other 
feeling   carefully   along  the   banister. 

"Weill  My  eye,  Landis,  you  've  come!  Really  I 
didn't  expect  it  of  you.  Forgive  me!  It  never  pays, 
does  it,  to  think  wrong  of  any  man !  He  always  — 
Bless  my  soul,  but  these  stairs  are  steep!"  The 
Senator  had  tripped  and  almost  fallen.  "We've  got 
to  have  them  ripped  out  and  built  right.  Well,  I 
declare,  Landis,  I  believe  you  've  grown  taller! 
Always  progressing,  eh.»^" 

By  then  the  Senator  had  reached  the  bottom  and 
grasped  Penning's  arm,  as  if  in  greeting,  but  really 
to  steady  himself.  Even  in  his  alarm  Penning  was 
touched  by  the  man's  effort  to  ignore  his  own 
desperate  condition. 

"Hadn't  you  better  see  me  in  your  room,  Senator?" 
Penning  asked,  by  way  of  beginning  his  persuasion. 

"No,  my  friend.  This  is  a  great  occasion.  They  're 
all  coming.  I  've  sent  for  them  all.  Every  creditor 
I  've  got,  omitting  none.  It  wouldn't  be  fitting  to 
receive  them  anywhere  but  right  in  my  parlour  — 
the  best  room  in  the  house.     Come  in." 

For  a  minute  it  seemed  to  Penning  that  he  himself 
was  the  man  in  delirium,  and  Banks  the  figure  in 
vigorous  health,  such  was  the  curious  respect,  even 
awe,  inspired  by  the  man's  solemn  extremity.  For 
all  the  sufferer's  volubility,  there  was  about  him  a 
dignity,  an  air  of  importance  and  of  noble  resolve, 
such  that,  delirious  though  he  was,  it  was  difficult  to 
interrupt  and  contradict  him.  Without  resistance 
Penning   suffered  the   Senator  to  lead   him   into  the 


394  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

dimly  lighted  parlour,  awaiting  a  better  opportunity 
of  fighting  the  sick  man  back  to  his  bed. 

Following  the  Senator  down  the  stairs  came  Sylvia, 
it  seemed  to  Penning,  in  his  fleeting  glimpse  of  her, 
never  so  lovely  as  in  her  anguish,  mutely  imploring 
his  assistance.  Mrs.  Banks  had  frankly  collapsed 
and  sought  her  room. 

"Let  me  get  a  coat  for  you,  Senator  I"  Penning 
urged. 

"Good  Lord,  man!  This  is  summer  time!  I'm 
burning  up,  as  it  is.     Thanks,  just  the  same." 

In  the  parlour,  beside  the  table  with  its  darkly 
shaded  lamp,  stood  Annabel,  reaching  out  in  her 
alarm  for  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Branstane  who  stood  near. 
Occupied  as  he  was  with  the  Senator,  Penning  had 
time  to  be  struck  by  that  instinctive  act  of  the  girl. 
To  him  it  was  still  so  everlastingly  significant. 

But  from  then  on  there  was  no  stopping  the  Sena- 
tor. He  talked  down  all  remonstrance.  He  held 
them  breathless.  Indeed,  not  one  of  them  but  had  a 
sense  that  it  was  too  late  to  resist  him,  in  a  fear  that 
he  had  already  fatally  damaged  himself. 

In  the  broad  doorway  between  the  little  parlour 
and  the  adjoining  dining-room  the  little  Senator  took 
his  stand,  his  head  held  high,  one  hand  upon  the 
door  frame  to  keep  him  steady.  It  was  clearly  a 
supreme  moment  for  him. 

"Come  closer,  Landis,"  he  said  to  Penning.  "This 
is  mainly  for  your  benefit,  my  friend.  Though  in 
spite  of  that  it 's  mighty  good  of  you  to  come  all 
the  way  from  New  York.  I  always  knew  you  for  a 
man.  You  understand  just  what  I  want.  I  know 
you  'd  do  the  same  in  my  situation.  You  'd  want 
to  settle  things  with  a  bit  of  a  flourish,  just  as  I  want 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  395 

to  do  here.  Let 's  see,  are  we  all  here?  Gentlemen, 
you  '11  pardon  me  for  a  little  pride  on  this  occasion. 
This  is  a  great  moment  in  my  life.  Fortune  has 
smiled  on  me  at  last.  I  have  here" — the  Senator 
held  aloft  the  packet  of  papers  that  he  had  kept 
tightly  clutched  under  his  arm  —  "I  have  here  the 
wherewithal  to  meet  every  last  obligation  against  me, 
and  leave  me  a  substantial  residue  besides.  That 
helps  you  to  understand  how  I  feel,  I  'm  sure.  You  '11 
admit,  one  can  hardly  help  a  feeling  of  honest  pride." 

The  Senator's  eyes  filled,  in  his  generous  emotion. 

"First  of  all  I  want  to  offer  thanks  to  my  wife 
and  my  daughter,  thus  publicly.  Without  their  loyal 
aid  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  reach  this  happy 
settlement.  To  them  I  want  to  render  whatever 
credit  there  may  be  in  a  man's  paying  his  honest 
debts.  It  has  cost  them  dear.  Without  a  murmur 
they  have  given  up  for  my  sake  all  that  was  dear  in 
their  former  lives.  I  hardly  know  which  of  them  has 
suffered  the  more.  Which  of  them  has  given  me  the 
greater  encouragement."  .  .  . 

Like  the  others,  Sylvia,  and  Annabel,  and  the 
sympathising  and  helpless  inquiring  neighbours.  Pen- 
ning was  amazed,  impressed  by  this  unexpected  flow 
of  speech,  wrung  by  the  poignant  irony  of  the 
situation. 

"Take  the  case  of  my  dear  daughter  Sylvia,"  the 
Senator  was  saying.  "Never  have  I  heard  a  word 
of  complaint  from  her  lips,  while  we  were  all  striving 
together  to  be  even  with  the  world  and  be  back  in 
our  old  places.  Yet  it  must  have  been  galling  bitter 
to  her.  Every  day  she  has  faced  little  privations, 
little  stings  to  her  pride,  but  all  bravely  borne  without 
a  murmur.     She  has  not  been  able  to  wear  what  her 


396  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

friends  wore.  It  has  been  painful  to  her  to  return 
calls,  and  more  painful  stiU  to  accept  invitations  to 
entertainments  where  she  was  once  —  I  am  proud  to 
say  —  a  modest  belle.  Her  friends  have  been  more 
than  kind,  but  in  spite  of  themselves  they  have 
gradually  fallen  away.  That,  after  tdl,  was  only 
natural.  They  have  their  own  little  activities.  They 
have  made  their  usual  little  trips  to  New  York.  They 
have  their  new  frocks  and  frills  —  things  which  my 
daughter  has  been  obliged  to  forego  for  a  time.  It 
would  only  have  embarrassed  my  daughter  to  be 
among  her  former  friends.  Indeed  they  have  been 
kind  to  her  in  sparing  her  the  painful  contrast  between 
their  happy  lot  and  her  own. 

"As  for  my  good  wife,  nothing  could  equal  her 
patience  in  a  very  trying  time.  Far  from  thinking  of 
herself,  she  has  been  wholly  devoted  to  bringing  about 
this  happy  moment.  I  owe  it  to  her  above  all.  You 
will  pardon  me,  I  am  sure,  this  little  public  tribute, 
which  they  both  so  richly  deserve.  Of  myself  there 
is  nothing  to  say  —  except  this.  Take  this  to  heart, 
my  friends,  and  put  it  to  practice  in  your  business,  as 
I  have  done.  I  stand  here,  able  to  pay  you,  because 
I  have  had  faith  in  men.  Nothing  else  pays  except 
faith  in  men.  There  have  been  those  who  have  said 
ungenerous  things  about  my  friend  Landis,  here.  For 
myself  I  have  always  known  that  he  was  sorely 
abused." 

For  a  moment  Penning  studied  the  Senator  closely, 
to  mark  if  this  were  an  outpouring  of  the  bitterest 
sarcasm.  The  next  instant  he  was  certain  of  the 
Senator's  sincerity.  The  little  man  lifted  his  voice, 
as  if  he  were  conscious  of  addressing  a  considerable 
assembly. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  397 

"Gentlemen,"  —  his  audience  was  composed  almost 
solely  of  women  —  "Mr.  Landis  has  been  harshly 
criticised  in  Rossacre.  Friends  have  warned  me  that 
he  alone  was  responsible  for  my  business  troubles. 
I  can't  believe  it.  Mr.  Landis  got  his  training  under 
my  own  eye.  If  he  has  made  enemies  it  is  because 
his  cleverness  has  excited  jealousy.  I  happen  to  know 
that  Mr.  Landis  himself  is  not  to  blame  for  my  diffi- 
culties, and  it  gives  me  the  utmost  pleasure  to  set 
him  right  before  you.  As  I  have  eJways  believed, 
Mr.  Landis  is  a  manly  man.  A  woman  urged  him  to 
act  as  he  did,  to  my  disadvantage.  He  was  under 
the  spell  of  a  woman  when  he  did  it.  He  has  told 
me  so  himself,  as  one  man  to  another,  in  a  letter.  I 
have  it  with  me  now.  Well,  any  man  is  to  be  for- 
given mistakes  made  under  the  spell  of  a  woman. 
It 's   the   way   of  the   world. 

"So,  gentlemen,  as  I  started  to  say  to  Landis  him- 
self on  coming  down  the  stairs,  it  never  pays  to  think 
wrongly  of  any  man.  He  always  comes  out  best. 
The  man  who  is  wrong  is  wrong  because  he  thinks 
wrong.  This  is  a  hard  world,  in  which  progress  of 
any  sort  is  so  difficult  that  often  one  man  does  serious 
injury  to  another  quite  unintentionally,  while  in  the 
pureuit  of  interests  that  are  entirely  legitimate.  Of 
course  I  realise  that  I  am  now  in  a  position  to  be 
generous.  I  am  able  to  pay  what  I  owe.  Yet  I  have 
always  known  the  truth  about  Mr.  Landis;  only,  I 
have  never  been  manly  enough  to  admit  it.  What 
happened  to  me  was  my  own  fault.  This,  I  think, 
is  the  chief  advantage  attached  to  wealth.  It  lifts 
us  out  of  the  realm  of  jealousy,  and  permits  us  to  be 
just.  And  I  have  learned  that  one  cannot  be  just 
without  being  kindly.    I  have  so  often  misjudged  men 


398  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

that  I  have  come  to  mistrust  all  judgments  that  are 
not  generous.  Take  the  example  of  my  young  friend 
Mr.  Penning,  our  brilliant  young  Judge  and  future 
Governor,  who,  by  the  way "  —  the  Senator  glanced 
searchingly  about  the  room.  And  only  then,  in  this 
break  of  silence,  might  Penning  judge  fully  of  the 
amazing  mental  effort  represented  in  this  burst  of 
uncontrolled  delirium. 

"I  wish  Judge  Penning  could  have  been  here  with 
us  this  evening,"  the  Senator  was  rushing  on.  "This 
occasion  would  have  gratified  him  even  more  than  my- 
self. Unfortunately  he  is  ill.  He  too  has  been  cruelly 
misunderstood.  He  is  really  ill  of  that  very  misunder- 
standing.   And  that  also  caused  by  a  woman." 

There  a  ring  at  the  door  cut  short  for  a  space  this 
remarkable  harangue.  Sherry  Brookes  had  arrived 
with  Dr.   Claverson. 

First  to  greet  them  was  the  Senator  himself.  To 
their  utmost  amazement  he  rushed  over  to  the  hall 
entry,  though  unsteadily,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Billings!  Rhodes!  And  you,  too,  Mr.  Sedgwick! 
I  'm  glad  to  see  you!  I  knew  you  'd  come,  and  I  'm 
ready  to  meet  you!"  He  turned  back  again  to  the 
frightened  women  in  the  parlour.  "Gentlemen,  since 
we  are  all  here  now,  let  us  come  down  to  business  at 
once.  It  won't  take  long  to  dispose  of  the  sordid 
details,  and  then  I  am  sure  my  good  wife  will  offer 
you  some  refreshments.  She  is  probably  arranging 
them  now.  Here,  Landis" — the  Senator  said  to 
Penning  —  "you  are  a  man  strictly  for  business.  I  've 
probably  tired  you  with  the  more  sentimental  side 
of  this  transaction  —  for  all  you  understand  what  it 
means  to  me." 

From  under  his  arm  the  Senator  drew  one  of  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  399 

packets  of  papers,  whisked  off  a  rubber  band,  selected 
a  document,  and  gravely  handed  it  to  Penning. 

"There,  my  friend!  I  think  you  will  find  in  that 
bundle  of  bonds  all  that  is  necessary  to  satisfy  your 
claims  against  me,  in  full." 

In  wonderment,  and  with  a  glance  at  Claverson, 
who  responded  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  Penning 
turned  the  papers  over. 

They  consisted  of  cancelled  checks,  long  past 
whatever  usefulness  they  might  once  have  served  in 
the  Senator's  business  transactions.  All  the  papers 
under  his  arm  were  the  same  cancelled  checks  —  ex- 
cept memoranda  of  the  notes  which  he  had  been  long 
trying  in  vain  to  meet  and  discharge. 

As  the  Senator  stepped  toward  Claverson,  with 
another  of  his  packets  of  "bonds,"  he  suddenly 
dropped  the  papers,  and  clutched  at  his  heart,  and 
wavered,  and  sank  into  the  nearest  chair.  In  a 
second  Claverson  had  recovered  from  his  astonishment 
and  was  at  the  Senator's  side,  motioning  to  Penning 
for  aid. 

"Don't  bother!"  the  Senator  said,  brokenly,  as 
the  two  men  placed  their  hands  under  his  arms,  to 
carry  him  hastily  to  bed.  "It's  nothing.  I  've  often 
had  these  spells.  At  the  office.  Never  said  anything 
about  them.     Didn't  want  to  worry  the  family." 

Even  in  his  dire  extremity  the  Senator  forgot 
nothing  of  the  large  and  ceremonious  manner  which, 
it  appeared,  he  had  long  before  rehearsed  and  com- 
mitted to  heart  in  preparation  for  this  long  meditated 
occasion. 

"  I  presume  —  the  pleasure  of  this  —  this  rare 
event  has  been  —  too  much  for  me.  I  —  must  have 
a  moment  for  rest." 


400  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Startled  at  finding  himself  lifted  by  hands  that 
seemed  strange  to  him,  the  Senator  looked  up  in 
quick  suspicion  into  the  faces  of  his  two  friends.  And 
as  he  dimly  recognised  them,  the  wrecking  hand  of 
reason  reached  through  this  rosy  haze  of  his  fancy 
and  shattered  it.  For  an  instant,  Penning  thought. 
Banks  realised  that  he  had  been  hoaxing  himself. 
For  an  instant  he  knew  that  he  was  not  relieved  after 
all  of  his  long  heavy  burden. 

And  deliberately,  and  as  if  with  a  violent  effort, 
he  tried  to  fling  himself  back  into  his  brilliant  illusion. 
With  a  jerk  he  freed  himself,  and  stood  to  his  feet, 
clear  of  their  assistance,  with  his  fists  clenched  and 
upraised.  Then  the  old  and  well-known  Senator 
spoke. 

"Oh,"  he  shouted,  "I  have  done  it!  Yes,  I  have! 
I  've  got  it  done!  We  're  going  ahead,  Sallie!  We  're 
going  back  where  we  belong!  Better  than  ever! 
There 's  a  perfect  avalanche  of  money  rolling  in. 
That  little  laundry  —  A  perfect  avalanche  — " 

Sylvia  screamed. 

For  suddenly  the  Senator  had  thrown  his  arms 
above  his  head  —  a  sinister  symptom.  His  tongue 
protruded,  and  pushed  his  lips  outward.  He  fell  back, 
choking  and  gasping  for  breath.  His  face  had  taken 
on  the  hue  of  fire-clay.  Then  his  jaw  dropped,  his 
eyes  roved  over  the  room  in  one  glance  of  final  com- 
prehension, his  arms  fell  limply  to  his  side.  And 
Penning,  in  the  whirl  of  many  impressions,  was  aware 
of  looking  on  for  the  first  time  at  the  phenomenon  of 
death. 

An  avalanche  had  truly  engulfed  his  friend,  and 
the  Senator,  as  he  wished,  was  in  the  state  of  eternal 
solvency. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTERWARD  Penning  could  remember  his  be- 
wildered discharge  of  such  helpful  duties  as 
fell  to  him  —  their  carrying  the  dead  Senator 
upstairs,  his  own  efforts  to  calm  the  distracted  women, 
the  telegrams  he  sent  to  distant  relatives  and  friends. 
He  remembered  —  with  surprise  and  with  other 
emotions  —  having  kissed  Annabel  as  he  left  her  to 
keep  vigil  with  Sylvia  through  the  night.  Natural 
enough  it  seemed,  as  he  thought  of  it  afterward.  Life 
is  never  more  eagerly  assertive  of  itself  than  in  the 
presence  of  death.  In  the  shadow  of  this  sobering 
occurrence  the  value  of  their  relationship  —  and  how 
ancient,  now,  it  seemed  —  was  made  suddenly  clear, 
as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  to  obscure  it. 

With  even  more  surprise,  and  in  much  amusement, 
Penning  could  also  recall  the  confusion,  the  sheer 
excess  of  his  fervour  to  be  helpful,  which  had  moved 
him  to  send  Mrs.  Branstane  home  in  a  taxi,  though 
her  journey  homeward  was  not  above  two  honest 
blocks.  The  exquisite  irony  of  her  being  there,  in 
ruins  of  her  own  creation,  was  too  much  for  him. 

Till  twelve  o'clock  Penning  stayed  at  the  Banks 
dwelling,  reluctant  to  leave,  eager  still  for  the  simplest 
service  to  perform.  Then,  with  Sherry  Brookes,  he 
left  for  his  rooms  at  the  Club. 

Still,  on  reaching  the  Avenue,  it  had  occurred  to 
him  to  send  Sherry  there  by  himelf.  These  strange 
new  excitements  Penning  wanted  to  have  to  himself, 


402  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

apart.  He  wanted  to  carry  them  away  with  him, 
on  a  solitary  walk,  that  he  might  contrive  to  under- 
stand them. 

He  wanted  to  get  away,  and  be  ashamed.  And 
do  it  thoroughly. 

Along  the  way  he  met  no  one.  The  town  and  the 
night  were  his  alone.  Yet  the  familiar  scene  —  the 
old  houses,  the  old  trees  and  fences  that  composed 
it  —  was  as  unfamiliar  as  if  he  had  been  years  abroad 
and  had  only  just  returned. 

The  scene  was  the  same,  but  the  man  was  different. 

In  the  middle  of  the  bridge  across  the  river  he  was 
halted  as  much  by  the  beauty  of  the  night  as  by  the 
teeming  matters  in  his  mind  that  demanded  compre- 
hension. And  leaning  over  the  iron  rail  he  stood 
there  for  a  season. 

Over  the  mountain  ridge  at  his  right  leered  the 
ghostly  half  of  a  decrepit  waning  moon.  Beneath 
him  the  water  was  as  still,  and  looked  as  cold,  as  ice. 
Down  the  stream  about  a  mile  the  other  bridge 
connecting  the  two  halves  of  the  town  stretched  its 
iron  tracery  like  black  lace  against  the  distant  haze, 
and  a  last  trolley-car  crossed  it  like  a  lighted  spider 
on  its  web.  Beyond,  the  solid  humps  of  the  hills 
seemed  to  be  sinking  into  a  morass  of  mist.  Far  down, 
on  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  a  steel  mill  sent  up 
periodic  gasps  of  grisly  fire  from  its  furnaces.  Now 
and  then,  near  at  hand,  a  bird  in  the  willows  along 
the  banks  broke  its  slumbers  with  a  twitter.  From 
an  old  scow  moored  at  a  little  wharf  beside  the  bridge 
rose  the  odour  of  wet  wood.  The  whole  scene  seemed 
eerie' and  unreal. 

Gradually  the  hubbub  in  Penning's  ears,  of  but  an 
hour    before  —  of    women's    lamentations,  of    all   the 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  403 

sounds  and  incidents  of  the  Banks  house  —  died  down. 
And  then  the  vision  of  the  httle  Senator  stood  out. 
The  whole  vision  of  him,  from  this  end  to-night,  back 
to  the  beginning  of  their  friendship.  That  vision 
alone  seemed  real. 

Always  Penning  had  properly  valued  Banks,  or 
thought  he  had.  But  no  man  truly  lives  till  he  is 
dead.  Only  then  does  he  stamp  himself  upon  the 
living.  Only  then  does  he  sum  up  the  final  total  of 
himself.  And  only  then  did  the  Senator  impress 
himself  upon  Penning  for  what  he  was.  Phrases  of 
his  remarkable  address  to  his  fancied  creditors  came 
back  to  Penning.  In  truth  not  till  then  did  Penning 
hear  it,  with  all  his  dread  and  excitement  abated. 
The  whole  crushing  irony  of  the  thing  reconstructed 
itself  in  memory. 

Strange  revelation  of  a  man!  .  .  . 

And  yet,  all  that  goodness  in  the  Senator,  so  long 
unuttered,  and  unsuspected,  was  not  incredible.  It 
might  have  come  as  a  surprise,  but  not  as  a  contra- 
diction. There  among  them  all  Banks  had  lived, 
outwardly  a  shrewd  man  of  business,  nothing  more, 
chattering,  and  sometimes  chattering  to  the  verge  of 
boredom,  the  jargon  of  trade;  yet  all  the  while  he  had 
been  hiding  away  within  himself  these  fine  things, 
possibly  because  he  was  too  modest,  too  fine,  to  want 
to  seem  superior.  Part  of  the  very  fineness  was  this 
trait  of  hiding  itself  away.  Only  at  the  impulse  and 
the  license  of  delirium  had  it  been  exposed  at  all. 
Once  only  had  Banks  spoken;  but  then  in  what  a 
manner! 

"The  sweetest  gentleman  that  God  ever  made!" 
Penning  said  to  himself  fervently. 

It  may  well  have  been  that  many  times  the  little 


404  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Senator  had  rehearsed  the  part  he  meant  to  play  on 
the  great  occasion  of  his  rehabihtation.  Long  before 
he  must  have  fashioned  it  out,  and  memorised  the 
very  words  he  meant  to  speak. 

And  finally  had  uttered  them  in  vain.  .  .  . 

Annabel,  too  —  But  for  Annabel  remained  the 
whole  future.  In  the  exchange  of  a  hasty  word  or 
two  before  he  left  the  stricken  house  they  had  under- 
stood each  other.  It  was  the  present  instead  that 
invited  —  that  commandeered  —  his  mind. 

Off  over  the  seething  little  metropolis,  sprawling 
away  to  his  left,  Penning  turned  his  gaze  —  over  the 
real  half  of  Rossacre,  wasting  its  multitude  of  lights 
on  a  population  sleeping  now,  save  for  its  points  of 
secret  dissipation,  the  beer  or  poker  parties,  the 
furtive  cock-fight  in  some  barn  along  its  fringes  — 
and  he  wondered  how  many  other  such  ironic  dramas, 
like  this  one  he  had  just  witnessed  and  played  in, 
might  be  running  their  course  there  and  then.  Even 
if  he  had  begun  his  life  elsewhere  —  anywhere  else  — 
mightn't  it  have  run  much  the  same?  Wasn't  it  all 
a  piece  of  our  queer  and  dear  America?  Or  was  it 
simply  life?    .  .  . 

Drifting  back  from  this  excursion  of  fancy,  to  the 
facts  as  they  were,  Penning  surprised  himself  in  a  smile. 
The  smile  became  a  quiet  laugh  as  he  summoned  back 
the  exaggerated,  the  hysterical  vision  he  had  once 
entertained  of  Mrs.  Branstane  —  as  of  a  sort  of  wild 
animal  at  large.  Suddenly  he  was  seeing  her  dif- 
ferently —  safely  caged  in  her  own  enormities.  What- 
ever new  tricks  she  might  play  with  him  now  would 
only  free  him  further  and  snare  her  the  more.  Banks 
had  shown  him  the  way.  Gayland,  Landis,  Banks, 
and  the  past  —  with  such  forces  on  Penning's  side, 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  405 

what  now  had  he  to  fear?  And  so,  immune  from  her, 
even  in  fancy,  he  could  smile  as  he  held  her  off  in 
review. 

There,  calmly  and  coolly  among  them,  in  perfect 
security,  was  a  murderer  as  surely  as  murder  was 
ever  done  with  dirk  or  bludgeon.  And  not  a  vestige 
of  a  case  at  law  stood  against  her.  Not  a  jury  could 
send  her  to  her  death.  No  Judge  could  pass  sentence 
upon  her  head.  Not  a  vengeful  hand  could  be  lifted 
against  her,  except  in  crime.  Yet  there  she  was, 
laying  about  her  as  she  pleased,  slaying,  and  indifferent 
to  the  slaughter.  .  .  . 

But  was  she  so  much  a  monster  after  all,  Penning 
wondered.  In  this  more  reasoned  survey  he  began 
to  understand  her.  He  seemed  to  see  in  her,  only 
the  more  candidly  outspoken  in  her  coarser  mind,  the 
same  impulses  that  finer  people  aU  about  him  eagerly 
obeyed  and  tried  to  hide  —  this  whole  godless  rush 
and  grab  of  the  time;  the  abject  worship  of  success, 
the  passion  for  power  and  position  and  money,  no 
matter  how  attained;  the  willingness  of  women  to 
impose  upon  the  chivalry  of  men;  the  willingness  of 
men  to  cheat,  to  rob  openly;  even  poor  human 
opinion  shirking  its  duties  of  restraint;  anything, 
everything  forgiven  if  it  is  clever;  and  decency  too 
ridiculously  costly,  honesty  too  senseless  and  ruinous 
for  all  but  the  prig  and  the  fool.  It  was  all  in  Mrs. 
Branstane.  .  .  . 

Again  Penning  laughed.  This  was  making  the 
woman  a  monster  only  of  another  sort.  There  she 
was,  in  her  physical  presence,  nothing  but  an  ordinary 
nuisance  after  all. 

"Well,"  Penning  said,  finally,  aloud,  "she  shall 
pass!" 


406  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

From  a  case  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  he  drew  a 
cigar  and  lighted  it,  coolly.  And  with  the  same 
deliberation  he  started  home.  He  revelled  in  his  calm. 
He  whistled  as  he  walked.  And  swung  his  aims.  It 
was  he,  and  no  longer  Mrs.  Branstane,  that  had  a 
story  to  tell. 

As  he  turned  back  into  the  Avenue  from  Bayard 
Street,  a  lone  light  was  still  aglow  at  the  top  of 
the  Gayland  house;  and  for  a  moment  he  halted 
beneath  a  tree,  to  enjoy  fuUy  the  exquisite  irony  of 
its  untroubled  burning.  Even  waved  a  nonchalant 
fist  toward  it. 

In  a  moment  he  was  passing  on.  He  wanted  now 
to  talk.  To  divulge.  He  wanted  to  be  ashamed 
publicly.  Even  Sherry  would  do  for  that.  And  he 
went  home,  and  fished  the  limp  and  somnolent  Sherry 
from  his  bed,  and  made  him  sit  up  and  listen.  And 
gradually  Sherry  awakened,  and  whistled  frequently, 
in  gathering  amazement  at  the  story  unfolded.  At 
Gayland's  part  in  the  recital  he  only  grinned.  When 
they  came  to  the  astounding  consequences  that  had 
levelled  the  Senator,  Sherry  leaped  up,  and  swore, 
and  reached  for  his  clothing,  and  was  moved  to  instant 
recourse  to  his  favourite  expedient  of  riding  an 
offender  out  of  town  on  a  rail. 

When  they  came  to  Penning's  own  unwilling  role 
in  the  drama,  and  his  apprehension  for  the  events 
that  might  be  still  in  store  for  him,  the  now  feverishly 
alert  Sherry  melted  away  into  apoplectic  laugh- 
ter. The  boy  writhed  in  his  bed,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
merriment. 

"Oh,  you  awful  boob!  You  innocent!"  he  was 
barely  able  to  articulate,  between  his  gasps.  "And 
you    don't    see    it!      Never    fear,"    Sherry   rose    and 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  407 

clapped  Penning's  shoulder,  "she  won't  harm  you. 
She  wouldn't  touch  a  hair  of  your  dear  old,  thick 
old  head!" 

"I  —  I  dont  believe  I  fathom  your  meaning," 
Penning  said,  to  the  accompaniment  of  worse  and 
further  laughter.  "But  I  don't  believe  you'll  have 
to  resort  to  your  rail.  I  begin  to  think  she  '11  attend 
to  all  that  herself,"  he  added  in  solemn  conviction. 


CHAPTER  V 

FROM  Penning's  flowery  return  of  her  to  her 
home,  in  the  taxi  from  the  door  of  the  Banks 
house,  Mrs.  Branstane  had  flown  up  the  stairs 
to  her  room  and  to  the  mirror  on  her  dressing  table. 
There,  for  half  an  hour,  late  as  it  was,  she  sat  re- 
arranging her  hair,  and  redraping  her  kimono,  and 
trying  the  effect  of  various  smiles,  and  rehearsing  a 
hundred  and  one  winning  ways  of  the  eye.  It  was 
the  first  moment  in  some  days  that  she  had  felt 
again  positively  secure  in  him.  She  remembered  the 
curl  of  his  lip  as  late  as  his  drive  that  afternoon  with 
Annabel,  though  now  it  seemed  days  ago,  when  he 
had  set  forth  with  the  twittering  girl.  The  meaning 
of  that  token,  otherwise  trivial,  she  read  unmistakably 
when  he  had  sent  her  those  two  blocks  home  in  the 
taxi.     And  this  was  not  aU. 

Waiting  up  for  Annabel,  in  ignorance  of  her  in- 
tention of  staying  with  Sylvia,  Mrs.  Branstane  had 
seen  Penning  pass  on  the  beginning  of  his  contem- 
plative stroll  in  the  night;  and  on  the  slim  chance  of 
his  repassing  that  way  she  had  waited  longer.  When 
he  did  return,  and  did  pass  that  same  way,  and  — 
could  she  doubt  her  own  eyes!  —  even  paused  in  the 
shadow  of  a  tree  long  enough  for  a  flourish  of  his 
hand  toward  her  lighted  window,  Mrs.  Branstane's 
heart  had  beat  like  a  fluttering  bird.  Only  a  single 
significance  was  attached  •  to  that  salute.  Senator 
Banks  was  dead,  aU  things  were  dead  that  had  stood 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  409 

in  the  way.  So  Mr.  Penning  intended.  And  no  one 
had  ever  yet  deceived  Mrs.  Branstane. 

She  was  drunk,  blind  drunk,  on  her  middle-aged 
fancies.  On  her  success  in  "society."  Her  head  was 
turned  completely. 

Even  when  at  last  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  off  the 
light  and  sought  her  couch,  it  was  half  an  hour 
longer,  and  after  many  restless  tossings,  as  if  she 
called  upon  her  very  bed  to  witness  her  joy,  before 
she  found  repose,  and  in  repose,  security. 

Because,  of  late,  she  had  caught  in  her  little  world 
of  teas  and  tosh  a  sense  of  instability.  Of  late  the 
invitations,  to  teas,  to  golfing  engagements,  to  week- 
ends at  sundry  cottages  along  the  river,  had  dropped 
off  notably.  And  Mrs.  Branstane  had  not  been  able 
to  blind  herself  to  the  reason. 

Always  Mrs.  Branstane  had  prospered  solely  by 
obliging  sensitive  people  to  recoil  before  her.  Cheer- 
fully willing  to  wound  at  any  time,  she  was  accus- 
tomed always  to  see  everyone  back  away  from  her. 
For  a  time,  on  entering  "society,"  she  was  able,  by 
a  violent  effort  of  the  will,  to  hold  herself  in  hand  and 
be  everywhere  deferential.  But  the  love  of  laying 
about  her  with  her  tongue  was  not  long  to  be  sup- 
pressed, and  in  no  great  while  she  was  dispensing  more 
jibes  at  her  absent  friends  than  were  good  for  her 
popularity.  Dozens  of  these  jibes  she  knew  were  sure 
to  come  back  upon  her.  And  though  a  verbal  duel 
was  to  Mrs.  Branstane  the  very  breath  of  life,  she 
had  no  taste  for  a  general  conspiracy  against  her, 
and  she  was  uneasy. 

Until  the  moment  of  Penning's  passing,  with  the 
wave  of  his  hand. 

If  Penning  had  melted,  if  Penning  approved,  what 


410  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

mattered  all  elsel  The  women  were  jeeJous,  that  was 
all.  Jealous  of  her  hold  on  the  men.  Hadn't  she 
heard  echoes,  even  in  society,  of  the  boys'  ravings 
over  her  eyes,  and  from  the  boys  themselves?  She 
laughed,  as,  for  the  tenth  time,  she  freshly  arranged 
the  coverlet  about  her  that  night,  and  remembered  the 
start  the  Senator  had  given  her.  Now  she  understood 
it.  Even  he  in  his  delirium  had  been  paying  deference 
to  her  powers.  Landis,  he  owned,  had  been  capti- 
vated. Nothing  in  that  but  a  tribute.  And  where 
else,  except  from  Penning  himself,  had  the  Senator 
learned  that  Penning  was  now  also  under  her  spell! 
It  was  proved  in  that  wave  of  Penning's  hand!  Mrs. 
Branstane  understood  that  with  all  the  willing  com- 
prehension of  the  love-lorn  woman  of  middle-age.  .  .  . 
Little  enough  she  slept,  but  passed  the  night  in 
wakeful  dreams.  No  more  of  Rossacre  for  the  likes 
of  them!  Out  into  the  larger  world  they  would  go 
together,  she  and  Penning,  and  play  for  the  larger 
stakes.  That 's  what  he  meant  to  signify.  And  what 
stakes  would  not  be  at  the  beck  of  such  brains  as 
theirs  together  I  In  two  or  three  days  the  annoying 
interruption  of  the  Senator's  funeral  would  be  over, 
and  then  — I 

In  the  morning  the  first  representative  of  Rossacre 
to  receive  Mrs.  Branstane's  new  contempt  of  the 
place  was  her  vassal  Mrs.  Gayland.  When  Mrs. 
Branstane  descended  the  stairs  that  good  lady  was 
already  brooding  alone  over  the  breakfast  table,  in  a 
lachrymose  condition,  and  garbed  in  black,  as  suited 
her  errand  of  sympathy  to  the  late  Senator's  wife. 

Nice  companion  for  a  person  in  the  bridal  humour 
of  Mrs.  Branstane! 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  411 

Furtively  Mrs.  Gayland  watched  to  see  what  mood 
in  her  difficult  guest  would  have  to  be  met  on  this 
particular  day.  And  with  a  sinking  heart  she  observed 
on  Mrs.  Branstane  a  look  as  black  as  her  own  gown, 
as  that  worthy  seated  herself  in  silence  at  the  table, 
sniffed  critically  at  the  grape-fruit,  at  the  cereal, 
the  eggs,  and  at  the  world  in  general. 

Eager  to  propitiate  her  angry  deity  Mrs.  Gayland 
at  once  began,  "Nellie,  I  hope  I  didn't  offend  you 
the  other  day,  about  the  punch-bowl,  you  know. 
You're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you?'^' 

Mrs.  Branstane  preserved  a  contemptuous  silence. 

"Too  bad  about  the  Senator,  isn't  it?"  Mrs.  Gay- 
land tried  another  avenue  of  intimacy. 

With  the  same  result. 

"I  see  you  are  angry  about  the  punch-bowl,"  she 
persisted.  "But  really,  Nellie,  I  never  meant  to  give 
offence.  You  believe  that,  don't  you.^*  Because"  — 
Mrs.  Gayland  blushed  and  lowered  her  head  over  her 
plate  —  "because  I  do  need  some  money  soon.  To 
have  my  enamel  fillings  renewed.  They  're  something 
dreadful." 

As  she  looked  across  at  the  poor  woman  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane frankly  laughed.  Why  bury  good  enamelled 
teeth  in  the  grave,  when  poor  fat  Mrs.  Gayland 
herself  would  soon  be  there! 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake  be  still!"  Mrs.  Branstane 
snapped.  Why  should  fatuous  Rossacre,  in  the  person 
of  this  fatuous  fool,  be  suffered  to  intrude  upon  her 
thoughts  at  such  a  time! 

"Don't  be  harsh  with  me,  Nellie!  I  never 
meant  — " 

"Oh,  hello,  people!"  a  voice  said.  And  the  two 
ladies    looked    up    in    some    embarrassment    at    the 


412  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

apparition  of  Annabel  in  the  breakfast-room,  home 
from  her  night  with  Sylvia. 

Now  it  was  Mrs.  Gayland's  turn  to  resent  an  in- 
trusion upon  her  schemes.  "Leave  me  to  do  the 
talking,  if  you  please,"  she  started  to  say,  tartly; 
but  Mrs.  Branstane  silenced  her  with  an  imperious 
wave  of  the  hand. 

"Well.t^"  she  immediately  challenged  the  girl,  for 
there  was  something  in  Annabel's  manner,  something 
in  her  wise  smile,  in  her  calm  ignoring  of  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane,  that   amounted   to   a   challenge. 

Whatever  sauciness  the  girl  might  have  in  mind, 
Mrs.  Branstane  was  disposed  to  anticipate  it  —  to 
anticipate  anything,  and  make  short  shrift  of  it. 

Still  ignoring  her,  Annabel  paused  in  the  doorway 
with  her  hands  behind  her,  with  her  head  tilted  high, 
and  that  smile  of  quiet  self-possession  about  her  lips, 
and  said,  taking  great  pains  that  her  words  were 
addressed  to  her  mother, 

"I  couldn't  help  hearing  what  you've  been  saying, 
dear.  And  I  can  tell  you  that  your  poor  teeth  — 
and  you  —  and  all  about  you  —  will  be  taken  care 
of.     Without  relying  on   Mrs.   Branstane." 

Annabel  came  closer,  and  rested  one  hand  on  the 
table  beside  her  mother's  place,  and  closed  the  other 
arm  about  the  tearful  woman,  and  added,  coolly, 

"Mother,  what  do  you  say?  Don't  you  think  it 's 
time  that  you  and  I  were  freed  of  Mrs.  Branstane's 
bondage?" 

At  that  first  formal  "Mrs.  Branstane,"  the  bearer  of 
that  imposing  name  had  stiffened  electrically  in  her  chair. 

Mrs.  Gayland  instead  wilted  limply  back  in  her 
own.  When  she  finally  comprehended  what  had  been 
said,  she  gasped,  "Are  —  are  you  —  crazy  —  girl?" 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  413 

But  Annabel  was  busy  with  candid  return  of  Mrs. 
Branstane's  blazing  stare. 

Mrs.  Branstane  too  was  gasping  in  astonishment. 
'"Bondage'I"  she  was  able  to  say  at  last.  "Bond- 
age indeed !  So !  That 's  how  you  take  my  kindness 
now,  is  it?  Well!  Who  's  planking  down  money  on 
you  now?'' 

Annabel  simply  continued  her  gaze,  but  she  red- 
dened, she  blazed  under  the  insult,  nevertheless. 

'^Annabel!"  Mrs.  Gayland  hastened  to  intervene 
in  the  threatened  warfare.  And  she  too  now  stiffened 
in  her  chair,  to  ward  off  impending  disaster.  "My 
daughter,  remember  where  you  are!  Nellie,  be  calm, 
I  beg  of  you!  Don't  mind  the  child!  Annabel,  how 
you  do  talk!  Do  you  mean  to  ruin  us  outright.^ 
Nellie,  you  know  how  saucy  she  has  always  been! 
Pay  no  attention,  please!  Annabel,  I  'm  ashamed  of 
you! 

The  iron  in  Mrs.  Branstane's  spine  melted  suddenly, 
and  she  sank  back  limp  with  laughter.  "0-oh,  this 
is  rich!"  she  gasped,  and  could  say  no  more  for  a 
moment,  so  violently  was  her  sense  of  enjoyment 
tickled.  When  she  had  finished  her  pleasure  she  said 
loftily,  "Well!  My  dear  girl!  You '11  —  you '11  soon 
enough  be  free  of  my  'bondage'!  I'm  keeping  you 
here  — " 

"Nellie,  Nellie!"  Mrs.  Gayland  sought  still  to 
stay  the  fatal  breach. 

"Mother!"    Sternly  the  girl  silenced  her  parent. 

Mrs.  Branstane  herself  joined  in  the  effort  to  si- 
lence Mrs.  Gayland.  "Shut  up!  you  fool!"  she  said, 
compendiously. 

Mrs.  Branstane  decided  at  once  that  her  quarrel 
was    with    Annabel.      Always,    it    occurred    to    her, 


414  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

Annabel  was  the  one  who  stood  across  her  path. 
Now  she  might  as  well  have  it  out  with  her.  Espe- 
cially because  now  it  was  safe. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  grin  at  me!"  she  said  to  the  girl. 
"Suppose  —  suppose  I  stopped  making  my  regular 
contributions  to  the  upkeep  of  this  place?  Who 's 
kept  it  going,  pray  tell  me?  How  long  do  you  think 
you  could  keep  it  going?  Could  you  stay  on  here 
alone,  without  my  'bondage'?  Who  else  is  there  to 
do  it?" 

Mrs.  Gayland  answered  her  excitedly.  "That  — 
that  means  we  must  leave  the  house,  Nellie?  You  're 
going  to  stop!     Is  that  it?" 

"Why  not?"     Mrs.   Branstane  calmly  taunted. 

"Leave?     Leave?     0-oh,  that  can  never  be!" 

"Why  not?"  Annabel  echoed.  And  again  the  two 
women  stared  in  astonishment  at  the  girl's  tone  of 
voice. 

''Leave?""  Vainly  Mrs.  Gayland  strove  to  admit 
this  new  idea.  "Why!  We  carii  do  that!  .  .  .  Un- 
less" —  she  looked  vaguely  from  Annabel  to  the  other 
woman  —  "unless,  of  course,  we  must.  .  .  .  Must  we? 
So!     We  must?'' 

Then  the  wretched  storm  broke. 

Mrs.  Gayland,  now  thoroughly  conscious,  cried 
out,  "Annabel!  You  wretched  girl!  This  is  your 
work!  Oh,  you  have  always  been  so  wilful!"  She 
turned  once  again  to  Mrs.  Branstane,  in  a  last  appeal. 
"Nellie,  you  know  how  wilful  she  has  always  been! 
Pay  no  attention  to  her!  Don't!  Oh,  Annabel,  you 
are  killing  your  mother!  Just  killing  me!  When  I 
have  so  much  to  bear  already!" 

There  Mrs.  Gayland  laid  her  hands  on  the  table, 
and  on  her  hands  her  head,  and  wept.     When  she 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  415 

looked  up  again,  it  was  with  a  fevered  face  and  a 
most  unlovely  sententiousness  in  her  gaze. 

"It  seems  to  me" — she  laughed  nervously  — 
"Annabel,  that  your  Mr.  Penning  himself  hasn't 
been  of  any  great  help  to  us.  It  doesn't  speak  well 
for  you,  my  dear  daughter,  that  he  has  not  been 
more  attentive!" 

"Mother!" 

"Oh,  don't  'Mother'  me!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
the  truth  about  him  long  ago!  Why  didn't  you  tell 
him  the  truth,  about  the  way  we  are  situated!  If 
he  was  too  stupid  to  see  it  for  himself!" 

"Oh,  mother!" 

"You  could  have  managed.  He's  not  a  gentle- 
man anyway.  I  wrote  to  him  myself,  if  you  want 
to  know,  and  begged  him  to  help  us,  and  come  and 
take  you.     And  he  hasn't  answered  a  word!" 

It  was  Annabel's  turn  to  entomb  her  face  in  her 
hands.     She  turned  and  leaned  against  the  wainscot. 

While  Mrs.  Branstane  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
and  gloated,  in  open  laughter. 

"Mother,"  Annabel  presently  found  voice,  but  not 
the  courage  to  face  about.  "I  fear  you  don't  under- 
stand some  things."  She  was  still  speaking  into  the 
hands  pressed  against  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  don't  I!  When  everything  goes  wrong,  then 
I  'don't  understand,'  eh.^  I  can  understand  well 
enough  that  Nellie  will  turn  us  out  of  our  house,  be- 
cause you  haven't  behaved  like  a  lady!" 

"There  are  other  things  than  fine  houses,  mother." 

"Oh,  yes,  much  you  know  about  life!  Nellie!" 
Mrs.  Gayland  suddenly  screamed,  as  she  saw  Mrs. 
Branstane  now  rising  in  disgust  and  about  to  leave 
this  distasteful,  painful  scene.     "Nellie,  you  certainly 


416  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

don't  intend  to  turn  us  out!  What  will  people  say!" 
And  Mrs.  Gayland  rose  also,  to  foUow  the  retreating 
Mrs.  Branstane  with  her  entreaties.  "Nellie!  I  teU 
you,  I  '11  wear  the  skin  off  my  hands  for  you,  rather 
than  have  such  a  thing  happen!" 

There  Annabel  firmly  caught  her  mother's  arm  as 
she  tried  to  pass  through  the  door.  Angrily  the 
mother  tried  to  shake  her  off.  But  in  the  end  Annabel 
stayed  her  effectively,  with  words  if  not  otherwise. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "You  need  not  —  you  shall 
not  demean  yourself  like  this.  To  one  who  is  not  fit 
to  tie  your  shoes.     Come  with  me." 

With  that  inspired  touch  of  flattery  Annabel 
worked  a  miracle.  In  wide-eyed  wonderment,  and  it 
seemed  for  many  minutes,  Mrs.  Gayland  stared  at 
this  new  personage  who  bore  the  semblance  of  her 
daughter.  Slowly  the  poor  woman's  manner  altered. 
Slowly  she  stiffened  under  Annabel's  encouragement. 

"E-e-yess!"  she  said,  feeling  her  way.  "You  are 
right,  my  daughter!  That  is  the  truth.  How  did 
you  discover  it!  You  don't  know  how  true  that  is. 
She  has  abused  me  —  oh,  you  don't  know  how  she 
has  abused  me,  in  my  own  house!  I  've  tried  to  keep 
it  from  you,  but  it 's  true." 

Mrs.  Branstane,  not  too  far  distant  to  overhear 
this,  was  quivering  with  rage  at  this  ungenerous  up- 
rising. And  just  when  she  wanted  to  think  of  other 
and  pleasanter  things!  But  so  long  as  she  had  to 
deal  with  it,  she  determined  to  end  it  at  once,  and 
she  returned  to  laugh  and  say,  roughly,  in  the  very 
faces  of  the  two  Gayland  ladies,  "  Your  house?  Are 
you  sure  it's  your  house.^^" 

The  words  might  have  been  bullets,  for  their  effect 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  417 

upon  Mrs.  Gayland,  who  fell  back  upon  Annabel  as 
if  she  had  been  shot. 

"Think  what  you  owe  me!"  Mrs.  Branstane  was 
saying.  "And  I  've  got  the  receipts  to  show  for  it. 
What  €lse  have  you  got  to  pay  me!  What  do  you 
think  you've  got  left!" 

And  she  turned  away  from  them  in  exultation.  .  .  . 

"It's  true,  Annabel,"  Mrs.  Gayland  confessed  in  a 
whisper.     "I  —  Nellie — "    she  began  afresh. 

"Come  with  me,  mother,"  Annabel  contented  her- 
self with  saying.  And  with  a  covering  glance  toward 
the  retreating  Mrs.  Branstane  she  led  her  stricken 
mother  away  and  up-stairs,  where  they  spent  the 
remainder  of  the  day  in  better  understanding  of  their 
affairs  and  of  each  other. 

Toward  that  understanding  Mrs.  Gayland  was 
liberally  assisted  by  a  confession  from  her  daughter. 

"Never  mind,  mother,"  the  girl  said.  "I  think 
Mr.  Penning  means  to  help  us  after  all.  In  fact  I 
know  he  will."  She  kissed  her  mother,  rather  to  hide 
her  own  blushes,  and  added,  "In  —  in  a  few  days  he 
will  ask  you  to  give  me  to  him.  .  .  .  Will  you?" 

Effusively  Mrs.  Gayland  drew  her  daughter  to  a 
seat  beside  her  on  the  divan  in  their  boudoir,  and 
welcomed  this  addition  to  her  sudden  joys  with  an 
embrace  and  a  kiss  —  which  Annabel  accepted  ab- 
sently. For  a  moment  the  girl  studied  the  clasped 
hands  in  her  lap,  and  then  lifted  her  head  with  a  self- 
accusing  little  laugh. 

"  Better  scold  on,  Mother.  I  need  it.  I  've  mis- 
behaved. .  .  .  Funny,  how  long  it  has  taken  me  to 
—  to  see  things!" 


CHAPTER   VI 

MRS.  RRANSTANE,  fleeing  to  her  room  for 
the  afternoon,  was  thrilled  with  her  newest 
discovery.  As  she  closed  the  door  behind  her 
she  burst  into  laughter  —  a  prolonged  convulsion  of 
laughter  that  reduced  her,  in  time,  to  limp  repose  in  a 
chair  in  sheer  exhaustion. 

Annabel  was  jealous! 

Not  simply  that,  either.  There  was  a  deeper  mean- 
ing. If  Annabel  was  jealous,  there  was  just  cause 
for  it!  .  .  . 

Something  of  a  hubbub  would  result,  of  course, 
when  the  Gayland  ladies  were  tossed  out  of  their 
house,  in  case  she  chose  to  enforce  her  will.  They 
might  enlist  a  sympathetic  gasp  from  the  town.  Still, 
Mrs.  Branstane  reflected,  few  people  gird  very  long 
at  money.  In  not  very  long  the  town  would  be 
gasping  in  quite  the  opposite  emotion,  when  she  and 
Judge  Penning  joined  forces  and  hands.  It  is  won- 
derful, as  Mrs.  Branstane  well  knew,  how  soon  the 
accomplished  thing  becomes  the  logical  thing.  Once 
really  get  somewhere,  and  nobody  bothers  long  to 
question  how  you  did  it.  .  .  . 

With  these  thoughts,  principally,  rather  than  with 
the  customary  emotions  attendant  upon  the  sight  of 
death,  Mrs.  Branstane  walked  home,  three  days  later, 
from  the  Senator's  funeral — alone  until,  turning  out  of 
St.  Mark's  Place  into  the  Avenue,  Mrs.  Bemis  caught 
up  with  her. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  419 

Mrs.  Bemis  also  had  paid  her  final  respects  to  the 
Senator.  Seated  not  far  behind  Mrs.  Branstane,  in 
the  meagre  Banks  parlour,  she  had  decided,  as  she 
estimated  the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Branstane,  that 
whatever  the  tartness  of  that  lady's  tongue  there 
was  about  her  taste  in  attire  an  evidence  of  means 
which  was  not  to  be  disregarded.  It  was  always 
wise  to  be  nice  to  Mrs.  Branstane. 

"What  a  frightfully  cunning  gown!"  Mrs.  Bemis 
called,  most  sweetly,  as  she  braved  the  heat  of  the 
August  day  to  catch  up  with  her  friend.  "Fresh  from 
New  York,  I  know!     And  you  look  perfectly  dear!" 

"Oh,  hello,  Ethel!"  Mrs.  Branstane  condescended, 
none  too  graciously.  She  wanted  to  be  alone  with  her 
fancies.  "Dear  of  you  to  say  so.  But  really,  I  was 
thinking  of  something  besides  dress." 

"Of  course  you  were!"  Mrs.  Bemis  laughed  back, 
not  a  whit  abashed  by  the  rebuke.  "I  can  guess 
where  your  thoughts  were!"  she  added,  archly. 
"You  certainly  had  your  eyes  on  him  the  whole  time. 
Fearfully  handsome  and  dignified  and  distingue,  isn't 
he!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  lowered  her  head,  and  flushed. 
And  Mrs.  Bemis  laughed  the  more,  at  sight  of  this 
phenomenon  of  a  blush  on  Mrs.  Branstane's  cheek. 

"Oh,"  that  lady  said  shortly,  "if  you  mean  Judge 
Penning,  of  course  he  cuts  a  good  figure.  Who 
wouldn't  admire  it!" 

Mrs.  Bemis  nudged  her  friend  with  her  elbow. 
"Come,  now!  You  and  I  are  old  pals.  When  the 
time  comes,  I  know  you  '11  tell  me  the  whole  sweet 
story!" 

At  that  Mrs.  Branstane  graciously  melted.  Even 
laughed  in  a  kittenish  manner. 


420  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

So  the  general  mind  was  full  of  it,  then!  The 
logical  linking  of  Judge  Penning' s  name  and  her  own! 
Mrs.  Branstane  even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  her  friend 
Mrs.  Bemis  to  dinner  on  the  following  evening.  .  .  . 

On  reaching  home  Mrs.  Branstane  received  from 
Humphrietta  the  report  of  a  telephone  message  to 
the  effect  that  Mrs.  and  Miss  Gayland  would  not 
be  home  for  dinner  but  rather  would  stay  with  Mrs. 
Banks  and  Sylvia.  And  a  moment  later  Humphrietta 
ministered  yet  more  to  the  mood  which,  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane thanked  her  good  fortune,  she  was  enabled  to 
indulge  alone. 

After  the  delivery  of  her  message  Humphrietta  was 
moved  to  appear  once  again  at  the  library  door,  her 
tow  hair  tousled,  her  arms  bared  to  the  heat  of  the 
day,  her  hands  folded  across  her  stomach  under  the 
blue  gingham  of  her  apron,  which  she  flapped  noisily, 
in  the  hope  of  gaining  the  attention  of  a  Mrs.  Bran- 
stane who  stubbornly  stood  at  a  front  window, 
looking  out  of  it  in  rapt  meditation. 

"Beats  all  how  hot  it  is!"  Humphrietta  ventured 
into  speech. 

Taking  the  late  August  thermometer  for  what  it 
was,  the  observation  was  not  wanting  in  pith. 

"Beats  all  how  hot  it  do  be!"    she  ventured  again. 

With  the  same  indifferent  result. 

"Don't  it!"  she  added,  loud  enough  to  compel  a 
rejoinder. 

"What  do  you  want,  Etta?"  Mrs.  Branstane,  as 
usual,  drove  straight  to  the  point. 

At  this  concession  Etta  burst  into  the  full  tide  of 
her  long  nursed  narration, 

"Why  ma'am,  it's  just  thissaway.  It's  jis'  long 
enough,  so  it  is,  mum,  that  I  've  been  a-slavin'  here 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  421 

and  a-drudgin'  away,  gratin'  the  very  skin  off'n  my 
hands,  and  bhsterin'  me  knees  all  up  till  I  can't  bend 
'em,  hardly,  so  they  keeps  me  awake  o'  nights  so  I 
can't  sleep  a  wink,  and  me  fetchin'  and  carryin'  — 
carryin'  the  hull  house  on  my  shoulders,  and  gittin' 
no  more'n  two  dollars  a  week  for  it  all!  And  I  ain't 
a-going'  to  stand  it  another  minute,  so  I  ain't,  mum, 
so  there!  I  gives  you  fair  notice  o'  that,  mum,  all 
in  due  time.  'Tain't  right,  so  it  ain't.  They  ain't 
no  sense  to  it,  says  I  —  me  as  'as  worked  here  hard 
enough  for  me  seving  dollars  a  week  only,  and  git 
on'y  two  now,  and  have  twic't  as  much  to  do  for  it  — 
makin'  beds  and  dustin'  the  hull  house,  and  washin' 
and  bakin',  and  even  washin'  the  windies  and  scrub- 
bin'  the  piazzies!  The  very  idee  of  my  a-doin'  of  all 
that  lazy  Barclay's  work!  Me  a-doin'  all  my  own 
work  and  his'n  too!  And  gittin'  only  a  fourt'  o' 
what  I  got  a  year  ago  —  with  cookin'  and  bakin' 
besides!  I  says  to  the  Weymouths's  Jinny  Buzzum 
a  week  ago,  I  says,  'I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  it  no  more!' 
I  says.  And  Jinny  says,  'You  better  bet  /  wouldn't 
do  no  sich  a  thing!'  she  says.  She  says,  'W'y,  the 
hull  town  knows  how  poor  them  Gay  lands  is!'  Jinny 
says.  She  says,  'W'y,  I  heard  the  missus  say  on'y 
yistiddy  'at  them  Gaylands  is  got  to  the  end  o'  their 
string  long  ago,  and  hain't  found  it  out  yit!'  And 
Jinny  says  her  missus  says,  '  W'y,  it 's  all  nonsense, 
them  Gaylands  hangin'  on  there,  jis'  a-waitin'  fer 
Judge  Penning  to  come  along  and  lift  'era  out  o'  the 
hole,  and  keep  the  grass  cut,  and  straighten  up  the 
gate-posts!'  Jinny  says  her  missus  says.  And  she 
says  —  Jinny's  missus,  Mrs.  Wentworth  says  —  '  I 
don't  beheve  Judge  Penning  is  a-goin'  to  lift  'em 
out,  anyway,'  she  says.    'He  ain't  goin'  to  marry  that 


422  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

pauper  Annabel,  in  my  opinion!'  Jinny  says  her 
missus  says.  And  if  Jinny's  missus  says  it,  what  you 
goin'  to  say  yourself,  I  want  to  know!  And  /  says, 
right  here  and  now,  I  says,  where  do  /  come  in,  if 
nobuddy's  goin'  to  come  along  and  lift  us  out  of  the 
hole,  I  says,  mum!  And  me  a-workin'  and  slavin' 
for  two  dollars  a  week,  and  no  hopes  of  any  more, 
mum!  Not  even  from  you  yourself,  mum!  W'y,  it 
ain't  sensible,  that 's  wot  it  ain't!  Me  a-workin'  for 
nawthink,  mum!  And  so  I  comes  to  you,  mum.  Oh, 
mum,  I  ain't  never  forgot  the  time  five  years  ago, 
mum,  when  you  come  to  me,  mum,  and  put  your 
arms  about  me  waist,  mum,  and  told  me  you  was 
downhearted  yerself,  mum,  and  we  was  to  be  like 
sisters  together,  mum!  I  alius  said  you  was  the 
right  sort,  mum.  Only  you  got  higher  up,  and  I 
didn't.  But  I  knowed  you  'd  understand  how  I  feel, 
mum.  And  so  it  's  come  to  just  this,  mum  —  either 
I  knows  where  I  'm  at,  or  else  you  gets  another 
cook,  right  away,  mum!  Beggin'  your  pardon,  o' 
course!" 

Etta's  lungs  and  her  oration  having  given  out 
simultaneously,  Etta  stopped  at  that  point. 

"Yes  —  yes.  That  will  do,  Etta,"  Mrs.  Branstane 
drawled.  And  as,  with  Etta  behind  her,  it  was  safe 
to  smile,  Mrs.  Branstane  smiled  at  her  own  un- 
conscious imitation  of  Judge  Penning's  drawling 
mannerism.     Smiled  for  other  reasons  also. 

For  if  the  town's  acceptance  of  the  logic  of  Judge 
Penning's  joining  his  interests  with  her  own  had 
reached  even  the  ears  of  this  humble  servant,  was 
there  reason  in  Mrs.  Branstane's  doubting  further? 

"So  that's  the  way  they  talk,  is  it,  Etta?"  Mrs. 
Branstane  said,  still  facing  defensively  out  the  window. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  423 

"Yazzum,  it  is,  mum.  They  says  Mr.  Penning 's 
had  the  wool  pulled  over  his  eyes  long  enough,  so 
he  has,  mum.     And  now  he  knows  it  himself,  mum!" 

"Hush!  Not  so  loud,  Etta!  .  .  .  How  long  have 
you  been  here.^^" 

"Six  year,  mum.     And  me  that  faithful — " 

"Yes  —  yes.  .  .  .  You  were  nineteen  when  you 
came?" 

"Yazzum!" 

"And  very  green?  And  for  six  years  you  have 
been  the  best  cook  in  the  first  family  of  the  town? 
And  held  your  head  high  over  all  the  other  servants, 
just  on  that  account?" 

"  Ya-yazzum." 

"And  I  taught  you  all  you  know?" 

Etta  hung  her  head. 

"  Do  —  do  you  remember  the  silk  dress  I  gave 
you  —  out  of  my  own  money?  And  the  chiffon 
waist?  .  .  .  And  do  you  remember  how  you  have 
been  favoured  at  every  Christmas?  When  all  the 
other  servants  of  the  town  were  not?" 

Etta's  head  drooped  lower. 

"And  do  you  remember  how  I  saved  you  when  you 
were  caught  wearing  the  underwear  that  Mrs.  Gay- 
land  and  Miss  Annabel  wore  only  one  day,  so  as  not 
to  have  it  washed  to  pieces  in  the  laundry  —  and  you 
fished  it  out  of  the  hamper  and  wore  it  all  the  rest 
of  the  week?" 

Silence. 

"And  what  if  I  tell  you,  Etta,  that  I  —  er  —  that 
I  shall  probably  keep  this  house,  and  shall  want  a 
good  cook,  at  good  wages?  ...  If  you  want  me  to 
keep  you,  when  we  get  this  house  going  again,  in  the 
grand  old  way,  so  that  you  can  hold  your  head  up 


424  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

among  all  the  other  servants  of  the  town,  do  you 
think  it  is  becoming  of  you  to  come  to  me  and 
complain  in  this  way?     Do  you,  Etta?" 

"And  so  the  old  house  is  a-goin'  on  again,  in  the 
old  way,  mum?"  Etta  burst  out  in  excitement. 
"And  how  is  that,  mum?  Is  somebody  new  a-comin' 
in?" 

There  Mrs.  Branstane  turned  and  smiled  at  her 
servant.    "That  will  do,  Etta,"  she  said  magnificently. 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHETHER  Mrs.  Branstane  felt  such  a  thing 
as  compunction  at  the  end  of  Senator  Banks 
is  open  to  question.  Perhaps  she  did,  for  a 
moment  —  for  as  long  a  time  as  Mrs.  Branstane  ever 
devoted  herself  to  amiable  emotions.  Her  philosophy 
began  with  the  cardinal  point  that  the  beaten  man 
in  any  fight  has  had  at  least  the  opportunity  of 
defence.  It  was  no  one's  concern  but  his  own  if  he 
dropped. 

All  such  matters,  in  any  case,  Mrs.  Branstane  was 
perfectly  willing  to  leave  to  the  professors  of  ethics. 
Her  immediate  fancies  were  stampeding  her  all  in 
one  direction.  Etta's  gossip  she  hurriedly  took  to 
her  room,  to  ponder  it. 

Wasn't  the  whole  town  judging  precisely  as  she 
had  judged,  and  from  the  selfsame  tokens? 

And  wasn't  Etta  the  more  trustworthy  witness  for 
the  very  reason  that  she  was  too  stupid  to  colour 
her  evidence  with  her  own  inventions? 

Mrs.  Branstane  so  agreed. 

Dinnertime  found  her  with  her  elbows  still  upon 
her  faithful  dressing-table,  her  hands  clasped  in 
ecstasy,  arranging  a  dozen  new  schemes  for  a  meeting 
with  Penning,  and  wondering  why  she  had  stupidly 
kept  Mrs.  Bemis  waiting  till  the  morrow's  dinner,  to 
hear  her  whole  sweet  story.  .  .  . 

While,  all  unconscious  of  this,  Judge  Penning,  along 
with  Mrs.  Gayland  and  Annabel  and  Sherry  Brookes, 


426  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

was  at  dinner  with  Mrs.  Banks  and  Sylvia.  Willing 
enough  as  Penning  was  to  stay,  they  would  never 
have  heard  of  his  being  anywhere  else.  His  voice 
alone  had  weight  with  the  distraught  Mrs.  Banks, 
and  it  was  his  judgment  that  decided  her  to  seek  for 
a  space  the  home  of  a  sister  in  the  country.  Annabel, 
he  also  decided,  was  to  help  Sylvia  take  her  there  in 
the  morning,  and  stay  by  for  a  week  of  rest.  Mrs. 
Gayland  herself,  not  to  be  outdone  in  sorrow,  was  to 
leave  on  one  of  her  visits  to  her  still  ailing  husband. 

In  the  morning  Penning  kept  them  company  on 
their  train,  and  journeyed  on  for  a  few  days  of 
business  in  New  York,  with  intentions  of  return,  by 
arrangement  with  Sherry,  in  time  to  meet  the  two 
home-coming  girls  together. 

The  plan  held  true,  and  a  week  later,  in  the  early 
evening,  they  four  walked  away  from  the  railway 
station  toward  the  Gayland  house,  where  Sylvia  was 
now  to  stay  for  a  while  with  her  inseparable.  And 
though  it  was  but  a  week  after  his  somewhat  stony 
drive  with  Annabel,  it  seemed  to  Penning  a  year  had 
elapsed  instead.  For  a  space  they  walked  slowly  and 
in  silence  together,  along  St.  Mark's  Place,  past  the 
empty  Banks  house,  toward  the  Avenue.  Never  had 
the  town  seemed  so  populous  and  gay.  But  to  the 
things  of  earth  they  paid  small  heed  just  then  — 
none  even  to  the  blinds  drawn  down  upon  the  Sena- 
tor's failing  endeavours.  One  matter  only  concerned 
them.  They  two  were  together  again.  And  when  the 
hurrying  throng  from  the  train,  and  along  with  it 
Sherry  and  Sylvia,  had  gone  on  ahead,  they  turned 
to  each  other  suddenly,  with  the  same  thought  upon 
their  lips. 

Except  that  one  said,  "Can,"  and  the  other  said, 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  427 

"Will  you  forgive  me!"  And  then  they  walked  on, 
while  Penning  took  her  hand  in  his  arm,  and  with 
his  arm  pressed  it  to  his  side. 

But  at  the  corner  of  the  Avenue,  where  the  Gay- 
land  house  came  into  view,  Annabel  halted  abruptly 
again,  so  that  they  were  obliged  to  laugh  at  the  man- 
ner of  Penning's  being  swung  round  to  face  her.  The 
occasion  had  presented  itself  for  Annabel  to  say  a 
painful  something,  premeditated  for  days. 

"Oh!"  she  frowned  in  a  mock  dismay.  "I've 
just  thought!  What  are  we  going  to  do  for  a 
chaperone!" 

Penning  studied  for  a  moment,  and  then  put  on  a 
wry  face  to  answer,  "Well!  We  always  have  the 
faithful  — " 

"No!"  Annabel  looked  up  at  him,  rather  proud 
of  herself  at  that  moment.     "Because  she  is  to  go." 

Penning    stared    down    at    her    speechless.      "Then 

you-" 

"I  've  learned."  She  bobbed  her  head  up  and 
down.  "Too  late.  But  I  've  learned.  And  she's  to 
go."  And  again  Penning  was  swung,  by  the  sud- 
denness and  determination  of  Annabel's  move  forward. 

"Yes!"  she  said.  "She's  going,  if  it's  got  to  be 
in  a  coffin!  .  .  .  Only" — he  felt  her  shiver  —  "it's 
going  to  be  a  nasty  half  hour!     Isn't  it!" 

"Leave  it  to  me,  now!"    he  snapped. 

A  yard  or  two  farther  on  another  thought  rather 
clogged  Annabel's  footsteps.  "Beally"— her  step 
faltered  —  "I  'm  —  I  'm  sorry  for  the  woman." 

"Yes,"  Penning  cheerfully  assented,  "she  '11  make 
a  lovely  corpse." 

"No!  It 's  only  that  I  'm  sorry  for  myself.  Come 
on,   Pen!"    and  she  hurried  him   along.     "Oh,   I'm 


428  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

slow.  But  you  can't  keep  it  from  me  for  ever  that 
2  and  2  make  4!"  .  .  . 

A  last  thin  rim  of  the  sun  seemed  poised  upon  the 
asphalt  only  a  mile  or  two  up  the  Avenue,  as  if 
purposely  lingering  to  throw  an  approving  glow  upon 
them.  As  they  turned  into  the  vine-wreathed  gate 
to  the  Gayland  park  another  show  greeted  them.  For 
in  the  distance  they  beheld  the  lately  deserted  scene 
of  a  little  tea  party  which  Mrs,  Branstane  had  hastily 
organised  for  a  bit  of  heartening  banter  on  the  score 
of  her  sentimentgJ  prospects.  Something  of  an 
occasion  she  must  have  made  of  it,  for  later  they 
found  the  cards  of  Mrs.  Brantley,  and  Mrs.  Bemis, 
and  others. 

By  the  side  of  the  fountain,  which  partly  con- 
cealed them,  half  way  up  the  w£Jk  from  the  gateway, 
Annabel  and  Penning  were  halted,  dumbfounded  at 
the  air  of  proprietorship  that  hovered  over  the  dainty 
new  table  set  out  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house 
beneath  the  trees,  still  lightly  burdened  with  newly 
emptied  cups  and  plates  of  muffins  and  cheese. 

Mrs.  Branstane,  however,  had  seen  them. 

Perhaps  she  had  taken  hasty  warning  from  the 
more  sudden  entrance  of  Sherry  and  Sylvia  on  the 
grounds,  though  their  instant  meandering  aside 
among  the  roses,  in  their  own  absorption,  left  her 
nonplussed.  But  her  eye,  travelling  down  the  Avenue, 
in  quest  of  an  explanation,  had  returned  her  a 
shock  at  the  sight  of  Annabel,  and  she  had  hurriedly 
dismissed,  through  a  side  gate,  the  last  of  her  guests, 
in  prudent  preparation  for  any  awkward  situation. 

As  Penning  and  Annabel  came  up  the  path  from  the 
fountain,  Mrs.  Branstane  was  pale  as  a  ghost,  and 
quivered  in  every  joint,  when  at  last  their  figures  rose 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  429 

on  the  steps.  At  once  she  tried  to  speak,  but  for  an 
instant  her  tongue  lay  like  a  dead  thing  in  her  mouth, 
and  the  words,  when  they  came,  were  barely  inteUi- 
gible  for  the  quaver  in  her  voice. 

"Oh I  Hel-loV  she  meant  to  say,  in  an  offhand 
manner  as  if  their  coming  were  unexpected,  but 
otherwise  of  no  moment.  "I  didn't  think  you'd  get 
back  so  soon.  Won't  Mr.  Brookes  and  Sylvia  come 
in?" 

"They  probably  will,"  said  Penning.  And  it  was 
he  that  gave  Mrs.  Branstane  the  veritable  shock. 

He  brushed  past  her  through  the  door  and  tossed 
his  broad-brimmed  straw  on  the  great  oaken  settle 
with  his  own  air  of  proprietorship.  Perhaps  he  laid 
it  on  a  bit,  in  order  to  conceal  a  preliminary  tremor 
of  his  own. 

With  that  token  Mrs.  Branstane  was  instantly  at 
a  terrible  tension.  Not  that  she  was  truly  frightened. 
Only  puzzled,  taken  unawares. 

"Do  make  yourself  at  home,"  she  said  to  Penning, 
needlessly  enough.  And  to  Annabel,  "Let  me  take 
your  hat,  my  dear.     You  must  be  terribly  tired." 

It  cost  Annabel  an  effort,  but  she  ignored  the 
attention  and  laid  her  hat  for  herself  on  the  broad 
table  by  the  stairway  and  said,  a  bit  nervously,  "Yes, 
I  am  a  bit  tired.     But  it  doesn't  much  matter." 

"It  must  have  been  trying,"  Mrs.  Branstane 
struggled  on.     "You  left  Mrs.  Banks  well,  I  hope.^" 

She  spoke  that  more  firmly.  It  gratified  Mrs. 
Branstane  to  note  that  she  was  growing  a  bit  angry. 
And  so  was  becoming  herself.  Even  to  be  thrown 
thus  at  a  disadvantage,  to  be  thus  taken  by  surprise, 
was  enough  to  anger  her  at  once. 

"So  far,  Judge  Penning,  I  haven't  had  the  oppor- 


430  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

tunity  of  offering  you  my  sympathy  on  the  loss  of 
your  friend."  Since  Annabel  meant  to  be  frigid  Mrs. 
Branstane  would  utter  her  challenge  to  Penning. 
"It  must  have  been  a  heavy  blow." 

"It  was,"  said  Penning,  so  carelessly  that  the  words 
escaped  his  lips  almost  without  intention.  Some 
others,  with  a  real  intention  behind  them,  he  directed 
to  Annabel.  They  were  even  fervent.  "I  hope  there's 
something  in  the  house  to  eat!" 

"You  shall  have  it  in  a  moment!"  Mrs.  Branstane 
interrupted.  "Aren't  Mr.  Brookes  and  Sylvia  coming 
in  to  join  us?"  She  turned  toward  the  door  to  call 
them.  "You  know,"  she  finished,  before  the  sum- 
mons to  the  outsiders,  "I  've  never  really  met  Mr. 
Brookes  formally,  it  happens.  I  'm  waiting  for  you 
to  present  him." 

Annabel  looked  helplessly  to  Penning.  And  cheer- 
fully now  he  spoke  for  her.  "I  see  no  necessity  for 
that." 

"Oh!"  Mrs.  Branstane  delayed  her  signal  to  the 
loitering  twain  in  the  park.  "Aren't  they  really  going 
to  stay?" 

"Oh,  yes!     They'll  stay." 

The  shaking  Annabel  was  obliged  to  admire  the 
daring  of  Penning,  as  he  openly  courted  the  issue 
with  his  insulting  accent. 

Mrs.  Branstane  on  her  own  part  tried  to  make  her 
stare  at  him  the  gaze  of  mystification.  "I  —  I  don't 
believe  I  understand." 

And  Penning  coolly  stared  back,  and  left  her  to 
draw  what  inference  she  might  from  the  glance  which 
was  all  he  returned. 

It  was  all  maddeningly  difficult  to  Mrs.  Branstane. 
If  they  meant  fight,  she  wanted  them  to  blaze  with  it 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  431 

at  once.  This  suspense  was  wearing.  She  had  swung 
fully  round  upon  them,  with  her  back  to  the  open 
door,  and  before  her  they  stood,  having  unconsciously 
moved  side  by  side,  with  their  faces  lighted  in  the 
lingering  glow  from  without,  and  bearing  what 
meaning  Mrs.  Branstane  could  no  longer  mistake.  .  .  . 

It  must  be  that  a  man  who  is  caught,  in  the  water, 
or  in  a  fire,  or  by  onrushing  wheels,  so  that  he  must 
die,  and  there  is  no  escape  whatever,  will  see,  in  one 
supreme  and  final  instant,  in  a  single  embracing 
vision,  all  that  he  had,  and  all  that  he  wanted,  and 
all  that  he  planned,  pass  from  him. 

Something  of  this  happened  that  moment  to  Mrs. 
Branstane.  Before  this  blast  of  reality  the  frail  and 
flickering  blaze  of  her  foolish  illusions  vanished  like 
a  light.  And  for  all  she  tried  to  stay  it.  Before  she 
could  catch  herself  she  had  taken  a  step  toward 
Penning,  with  her  arms  instinctively  outstretched, 
and  all  that  was  lost  within  her  cried  out  to  him, 

"Why—!     Don't  — don't  you  like  me?" 

Then,  in  a  flash,  and  with  a  flare  of  her  eye,  all  her 
genius  for  mischief  returned,  and  she  amended  the 
words, 

"Don't  you  love  me  any  more?" 

A  glance  from  one  to  the  other  of  their  flushed  but 
stony  faces  convinced  her  that  the  device  had  failed. 

And  again  Mrs.  Branstane  went  white  as  a  sheet. 
Almost  her  knees  gave  way  under  her,  at  this  first 
sensation  of  a  failure  in  her  life  that  was  utter  and 
final.  From  one  face  to  the  other,  and  back  again, 
her  eye  travelled.  And  then,  suddenly,  she  knew 
only  that  she  was  furious,  and  free,  and  at  home. 

"Aha-a-a!"  came  the  old  cry,  in  the  old  way, 
bringing  a  start  to  Annabel.     "I  see  it  now!" 


432  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

She  had  rushed  up  to  Penning  and  stood  before 
him,  her  hands  clenched  at  her  side  and  her  whole 
form  trembling.  The  next  words  choked  her,  and 
something  that  was  still  ineradicably  woman  in  her 
half  raised  her  hands  as  if  to  cover  her  face.  An 
instant  she  faltered  so,  and  then  sank  to  the  floor 
beside  a  chair  that  caught  one  of  her  arms  and  let 
it  rest  there.  For  the  eternity  of  half  a  minute  Mrs. 
Branstane  rocked  there,  slightly,  in  the  grip  of  un- 
controllable emotion,  while  Penning  and  Annabel 
backed  somewhat  away. 

It  was  going  to  be  even  worse  than  they  had 
imagined. 

Penning  tried  to  speak,  to  have  done  with  it.  His 
trembling  lips  were  framing  a  few  helpful  words,  — 
"Mrs.  Branstane,  I  beg  of  you,  let  us  have  no  — " 

But  like  a  wild  thing  Mrs.  Branstane  leaped  to  her 
feet,  the  more  enraged  to  have  been  caught,  even  for 
an  instant,  in  weakness.  Her  eyes  blazed.  A  hot 
flush  had  supplanted  the  pallor  of  a  minute  before. 
She  was  thinking  now  with  lightning  speed.  It  was 
not  refusal  of  thought,  but  abundance  of  thought, 
that  clogged  her  tongue.  Penning  was  as  much  taken 
back,  as  wondering  and  helpless,  as  Annabel,  with 
Mrs.  Branstane  creeping  toward  him  as  if  she  meant 
to  spring.  The  mingled  fright  and  fury  on  her  face 
were  not  precisely  lovely. 

"You  coward!  You  whelp!"  she  began  in  a  low 
voice  that  quivered  with  passion.  "So!  You  are 
ashamed  of  me,  are  you?  In  secret,  behind  locked 
doors,  you  are  willing  to  listen  to  my  flattery,  eh? 
Lick  it  up  and  cry  for  more,  wouldn't  you!  But  in 
public  I'm  —  I'm  a  servant  still,  eh.^  My  God!" 
Her  clenched  fists  reached  out  to  him.     "Now,  now 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  433 

you  think  you  are  safe  enough  —  have  backing 
enough  —  and  so  you  '11  throw  me  out,  eh?  Well, 
it 's  cowardly  persecution,  that 's  what  it  is!  You  've 
fooled  me.  You  've  poisoned  Annabel  against  me. 
Even  Annabel.  The  only  hold  I  had  in  the  world. 
The  only  one  that  tried  to  make  me  happy.  And 
you  've  poisoned  her.  I  've  seen  you  try  to  do  it. 
You  thief!  You  've  robbed  me.  You  've  always 
persecuted  me.  You  've  always  tried  to  crowd  me 
out!" 

"Poor  woman!  Poor  woman!"  Penning  was  say- 
ing, idly,  wishing  for  some  way  of  ending  it.  He  held 
up  a  hand  to  stay  her. 

But  with  that  gesture  Mrs.  Branstane  rather  stayed 
Penning,  in  the  old  way.  Bising  to  her  full  height, 
and  with  her  head  flung  back,  she  said,  in  a  scorn 
that  forbade  or  defied  interruption,  "Don't  'poor 
woman'  me,  if  you  please!  I  won't  have  that  from 
you!  You  're  not  fit  to  frame  the  words."  And  she 
laughed  at  his  instant  wilting  into  modesty. 

That  was  too  sweet.  It  rocked  her  from  her  sudden 
moral  height  into  the  more  familiar  manner.  "Dirt 
that  you  are!  For  you  to  talk  down  to  me!  As  if 
the  whole  town  hadn't  learned  by  now  what  your 
'brilliance'  amounts  to!  Your  wonderful  talents  — 
where  are  they!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  was  hurling  out  the  words  in  a 
volley,  to  hold  her  enemies  and  gain  time  till  she 
could  think  her  way  along  and  perhaps  be  extricated. 
And  now  the  ideas  began  to  come.  All  restraint 
passed  from  her.  Turning  for  a  moment  to  Annabel, 
she  said, 

"I  'm  glad  you  're  here,  my  girl.  You  two  couldn't 
have  planned  it  better.    The  doves!"    She  even  swung 


434  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

about  and  beckoned  in  the  other  two  who  had  come 
to  the  doorway  in  amazement  at  the  uproar.  "Come 
in,  you  two.  This  is  something  for  you.  I  'm  going 
to  show  this  man  up  at  last.  Yes!" — turning  back 
to  Penning  —  "did  you  catch  that?  I'm  going  to 
show   you   up." 

And  for  answer  Penning  smiled  to  Annabel  with  a 
swift  new  thought.  It  flashed  upon  him  that  perhaps 
the  best  explanation  of  himself  might  come  from  these 
very  lips. 

"To  think!"  Mrs.  Branstane  looked  hungrily 
through  him.  "That  I  might  have  showed  you  up 
long  ago!  When  I  might  have  done  it  right  and 
proper!  With  everybody  by  to  listen!  And  not  just 
these  silly  young  fools.  What  a  chance  I  missed! 
Why  didn't  I  do  it?  Why,  you  ingrate?  I'll  tell 
you  why.  Because  while  you  were  hating  me,  and 
scheming  your  worst  to  beat  me  down,  and  driving 
me  half  crazy  with  your  persecution,  I  was  praising 
you.  Praising  you  here,  praising  you  there,  every- 
where, and  doing  my  utmost  to  save  your  reputation. 
Ask  Mrs.  Bemis.  Ask  Mrs.  Brantley.  When  edl  the 
while  you  were  paining  me.  When  I  might  have 
snuffed  you  out  with  a  word.  Why  didn't  I  do  it! 
Well,  here  's  why  again!  Because  I  would  have  been 
your  servant,  willingly.  I  was  your  servant.  And 
you  never  knew  it.  There  was  nothing  I  wouldn't 
have  done  for  you  —  worked  the  very  skin  off  my 
hands  for  you.  I  was  ready  to  be  your  slave.  But 
what  did  you  care  about  that!  What  do  you  care 
now!  Coward!  Bat!  When  a  single  word  from  me 
would  have  brought  you  to  your  knees  to  me,  begging 
for  mercy!  Coward!  I  could  shoot  you  dead  with 
that    word!      Ingrate!      I    might   swim   the   Atlantic 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  435 

ocean,  to  save  your  life,  and  I  'd  be  lucky  to  get  a 
'Thank  you'  on  the  other  shore,  for  all  my  pains! 
You  leper!  You  've  ruined  my  life.  And  that 's 
all  you  care!" 

And  Mrs.  Branstane  snapped  her  fingers  before  his 
face,  to  signify  how  very  little  he  cared. 

So  handsomely  did  Penning  look  his  distress  for 
her  that  she  almost  spared  him  the  bolt  that  she 
panted  to  heave  at  him.     But  she  heaved  it. 

"  We-ell!"  She  turned  grandly  to  Annabel.  "Here  's 
—  where  —  he  —  pays!  Here's  where  I  show  him 
up  at  last.  I  tell  you  I  speak  my  word.  If  I  'm  to 
come  down  in  the  world,  he  comes  down  too.  Listen 
to  me,  if  you  please.  All  the  time  this  grand  Judge 
here  was  sitting  in  honour,  passing  on  law-suits,  the 
honourable  Judge,  the  upright  Judge,  he  was  — 
bribing.  Bribing  a  woman!  Paying  her  money  to 
hold  her  tongue.  That 's  the  kind  of  Judge  we  've 
had.  That 's  why  his  cheeks  thinned  out.  That 's 
why  he  failed  in  his  work.  The  sneak  in  him  was 
fretting  him  to  death,  that 's  what!  Aha-a-a,  Anna- 
bel! That  makes  you  open  your  eyes,  doesn't  it! 
That 's  the  sort  of  man  you  've  been  worshipping  all 
the  time!  Allow  me  to  present  the  real" — ineffably 
Mrs.  Branstane  drawled  the  word,  and  bowed  low 
as  she  said  it  —  "allow  me  to  present  the  re-al  Judge 
Penning!  You  can't  believe  it,  can  you?  Well!  I 
guess  I  know.     For  /  was  —  the  woman!" 

In  a  strident  note  of  scorn  Mrs.  Branstane  laughed, 
and  struck  an  attitude,  utterly  careless  now  of  what 
she  said  and  did,  even  against  herself. 

"Good  God,  girl,  how  I  have  laughed  at  you!  At 
everybody  that  wondered  what  could  be  the  matter 
with  this  fine  fellow!    When  all  the  while  /  knew  well 


436  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

enough  what  ailed  him!  And  —  do  you  know  why 
he  paid  me  money?  0-oh,  he  had  to  do  it.  I  had 
him  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand." 

The  dominant  element  now  was  self-adoration. 
And  so  she  sailed  on. 

"Yes,  my  dear  girl!  /  made  the  little  fellow  pay, 
you  'd  better  bet!  That  br-rilliant  intellect  was  at 
my  mercy  all  the  while.  /  made  him  grovel!  Lord, 
how  he  hopped  when  I  laid  on  the  lash!" 

Here  Mrs.  Branstane  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed,  at  the  vision  of  physical  retribution  she  had 
called  up  for  Penning.  "Nice  and  proper  he  paid 
his  little  money!  And  only  guess  what  for!  The 
perfect  idiot !  Listen  to  this !  He  paid  his  good  money 
to  keep  me  from  blabbing  pretty  secrets  of  an  utter 
enemy  of  his!  Think  of  that!  And  do  you  know  who 
the  enemy  was,  Annabel.!^" 

Penning  started  toward  her.  But  before  he  could 
prevent  it  she  had  uttered  the  rest.  "Old  Gayland! 
Yes!  Your  father,  my  dear  girl!  Your  saintly 
father!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  like!  Oh,  he  was 
easy!  Just  to  keep  your  dear  old  Daddy's  dirty 
secrets  from  you,  he  paid  me!  Rawther  a  funny 
arrangement,  wasn't  it,  eh?" 

From  that  point  Annabel  scarcely  heard  more. 
Pained  to  the  uttermost,  she  was  smiling  through  her 
pain.  In  this  vengeful  portrait  Penning  was  not  merely 
reconstructed,  she  saw  him  with  new  cubits  to  his 
stature. 

Something  of  this  broadening  comprehension  Mrs. 
Branstane  saw  spreading  over  the  girl's  face,  widen- 
ing her  eyes,  and  gladdening  them.  With  that  the 
woman  began  to  realise  how  completely  she  had  given 
her  own  case  away. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  437 

"Oh,  you  needn't  chortle,  you  empty-headed  little 
fool!"  she  snapped,  and  walked  toward  Annabel  till 
their  faces  almost  touched.  "He  had  to  do  it.  And 
so  would  you  have  had  to  do  it,  if  I  had  said  so.  .  .  . 
But  it  was  rawther  a  funny  arrangement,  wasn't  it.^ 
He  paying  me  good  money  to  save  you  from  knowing 
your  father!"  There  she  grasped  Annabel's  wrist 
fiercely,  and  ground  out  between  her  teeth,  "That's 
what  he  did  for  you,  you  little  fool  —  while  you  were 
thinking  ill  of  him  because  of  it!  Get  down  on  your 
knees  to  that  man!" 

Mrs.  Branstane  would  have  forced  the  girl  into 
precisely  that  posture  but  for  Penning's  step  to 
interfere. 

"You  little  twittering  canary!"  the  woman  con- 
tented herself  with  saying  instead.  "What  have  you 
got,  that 's  up  to  that  man's  mark!  You  told  me 
yourself,  one  day,  that  you  thought  he  was  a  failure. 
Now  you  know  why  he  was  a  failure!  Because  of 
you,  that's  why!  He  gave  up  nearly  all  he  had  on 
your  account  —  reputation,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 
And  do  you  really  want  to  know  why  he  did  all  that? 
—  why  he  was  willing  to  do  anything  not  to  have  me 
teU— " 

Again  Penning  made  a  dash  toward  her,  but  Mrs. 
Branstane  caught  his  hand  and  stayed  it  long  enough 
to  blurt  the  rest. 

"Because  your  Daddy  and  I —  He  didn't  want 
you  to  know  — " 

There  Annabel  was  more  effective  in  choking  off 
the  unhappy  torrent. 

"I  know  everything,  Mrs.  Branstane,"  she  pre- 
varicated, beautifully.  The  girl  had  been  guessing 
shrewdly  in  the  last  few  minutes. 


438  THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT 

"You  know  nothing!  Down  on  your  knees  to 
that  man  I"  Mrs.  Branstane  fairly  shouted  it.  "Down 
on  your  knees!  That 's  where  you  belong!  That 's 
where  /  have  been  all  along!" 

Tears  of  impotent  rage,  of  eternal  loss,  filled  Mrs. 
Branstane's  eyes.     She  turned  to  Penning. 

"And  I  wronged  him.  Bullied  him.  Ruined  him. 
Or  tried  to.  And  all  the  time  /  could  see  what  he  was  I 
I,  the  one  he  hated!  While  you''  — she  swayed  back 
to  Annabel  —  ''you,  the  one  he  did  all  that  for,  thought 
he  was  a  failure!"  She  laughed  aloud.  "Why!  You 
never  knew  what  he  was.  I  lied  just  now.  I  said  he 
paid  me  bribe  money.  He  did  pay  me  money.  Yes, 
but  it  was  only  to  pay  me  back  for  the  bills  on  this 
house.  I  called  it  bribe  money  whenever  I  wanted  to 
threaten  him.  Whenever  I  wanted  him  in  my  hands. 
Wanted  him.  But  it 's  a  lie.  He  's  grand,  that 's  what 
he  is.     And  all  for  that  rotten  father  of  yours." 

Still  again  Penning  sought  to  stop  her,  but  she 
backed  away  from  him,  and  spouted  on. 

"  That 's  why  I  made  him  jump.  Because  he 
wouldn't  —  wouldn't  like  me." 

At  last  the  words  were  out.  And  sincerely.  So 
utterly  clear  that  Mrs.  Branstane  had  to  blush  for 
herself  furiously.  For  a  moment  she  was  a  woman, 
and  she  started  to  rush  away. 

"Oh,"  they  heard  her  say  to  herself.  "It's  good 
bye  to  everything  now!" 

To  her  surprise  she  saw  Penning  stepping  toward 
her  politely.  His  face  too  was  flushed.  With  em- 
barrassment. With  a  blaze  of  comprehension.  With 
a  tinge  of  amusement.     And  of  pity. 

And  he  caught  her  hand,  and  bowed  over  it.  "I  — 
I  never  understood,"  he  said.     "I'm  —  I'm  sorry!" 


THE   END   OF  THE  FLIGHT  439 

Mrs.  Branstane  watched  the  procedure  in  a  sort 
of  hypnotic  fascination.  She  even  held  up  her  hand 
and  gazed  at  it. 

Then,  including  all  the  four  of  them  who  had 
witnessed  this  occasion,  in  a  lingering  and  parting 
glance  at  each  —  perhaps  pleased  with  the  sincere 
evidences  of  sympathy  that  she  marked  in  their 
faces  —  Mrs.  Branstane,  slowly  now,  as  in  a  dream, 
passed  up  the  stair  and  to  her  room. 

The  next  day  she  gathered  together  her  belong- 
ings and  took  up  lodgings  at  a  remote  boarding 
establishment  on  the  edge  of  the  town. 

A  week  afterward,  they  learned,  Mrs.  Branstane 
had  left  Rossacre,  to  go  on  with  existence  elsewhere. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THAT  evening  later,  when  they  had  recovered 
some  calm  of  mind,  and  Etta  had  stayed  the 
united  ravenings  of  their  appetites,  these  four 
made  a  quiet  festival  of  the  welcome  darkness.  To 
draw  the  more  quickly  away  from  a  tumultuous 
recollection,  they  crossed  the  river  and  climbed  the 
mountain  path,  to  the  height  where  the  benches  were. 
A  brisk  breeze  had  arisen,  perhaps  to  justify  their 
cleaving  the  closer  together.  But  was  it  the  crisp 
air,  and  circumstance  and  fancy  only,  which  made 
the  great  little  town  beneath  them,  sparkling  like  a 
mammoth  jewel  with  its  thousand  diamond  lights, 
seem  to  have  been  purged  of  something  noisome? 

On  the  distant  Avenue  they  could  hear  for  a  while 
the  lazy  hum  of  traffic.  Then  slowly  the  louder 
rumours  of  the  night  died  down,  and  gave  their  mood 
the  emphasis  of  solitude  and  silence.  Only  the 
shivering  leaves  of  early  Autumn  rustled  in  reminis- 
cence of  the  nearly  ended  summer.  Crickets  chattered 
in  corroboration.  All  the  quieter  instruments  of  night 
tuned  their  pipes  and  played  their  soft  late-summer 
symphony  —  the  outward  orchestration  of  an  inward 
harmony  in  these  four. 

Once,   under  cover   of  the  darkness,   Annabel  laid 
her  head  against  Penning's  shoulder,  and  said  to  him, 
"You  do  feel  sorry  for  her,  don't  you?" 
For  answer  he  kissed  her  hair.     And  she  went  on, 
"But  to  think  what  a  stubborn  child  I  was!     And 


THE  END  OF  THE  FLIGHT  441 

how  patient  you  were  with  me!  ...  But  really,  she 
was  good  to  us,  for  a  time."  For  a  while  she  kept 
silence,  and  then,  —  "  Do  you  know  what  I  'm  think- 
ing? Of  how  pleasant  it 's  going  to  be  when  you 
once  start  talking!  It  must  have  taught  you  some- 
thing wonderful.  Hasn't  it.^^"  He  could  feel,  if  not 
see,  her  lifting  an  eager  face. 

"I  think,"  he  answered,  "it's  shown  me  the  truly 
important  thing.  That 's  finding  —  before  it 's  too  late 
—  the  few  people,  or  the  one  person,  one  can  cling  to. 
.  .  .  Cling  to,"  he  repeated.  "And  then  being  that 
sort  of  person  oneself." 

He  drew  her  to  him. 

On  another  bench  near  by,  business  of  this  character, 
if  not  in  the  same  key,  was  going  forward. 

And  so,  two  and  two,  these  four  pieced  together, 
into  exquisite  jointure  again,  the  tattered  ends  of  their 
long  and  absurd  divisions. 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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